My Brother's Keeper
by Jantallian
Summary: There are only so many things a man can stand - and sometimes comfort is not one of them. A simple item of news shatters the world of the relay station with terrible consequences, driving Jess into unknown territory as he is compelled to complete a harrowing, secret task. (Long 4-part story. Updated Mar 8 in light of reviews and feedback; new incidents, mainly in Ch 16-18).
1. Chapter 1

_'A brother is a friend God gave you;_

 _a friend is a brother your heart chose.'_

Proverb

 **MY BROTHER'S KEEPER**

Jantallian

 **GONE**

 **1**

The letter lay open on the table. Lay where Jess had dropped it, forty eight hours ago. He stood in the shadowy room, staring down at it, not reading, but recalling **…..**

 **# # # # #**

… **..** Recalling the evening he had ridden into the relay station, tired but with a sense of satisfaction at the end of a long day checking the western fence boundary and driving down the last few steers to the lower pastures where they could more easily be attended to. It was hard running the ranch and relay station on his own, with only occasional help from hired hands when they were really needed. But he had promised Slim to keep the place running economically while he was away visiting his newly-discovered relations in St. Louis and, on the whole, he felt he had succeeded. Today had been something of a reward – a day on his own. The kind of day he still relished for the solitude it gifted to him, a solitude as necessary to his spirit as the warmth of the welcome that was waiting for him in the place he could now call home.

It seemed so long ago now from the day he had ridden over the same trail and paused on the very same ridge, looking down into the relay station. Seeing for the first time the small ranch house, tucked against the hillside, the spread of the corral, the north and south paddocks and the strong, well-kept barn. Here was a place that was cared for. Cared for in a way which spoke to his heart as well as his shrewd, practical mind. But his mind had been savage then, ruthlessly bent of finding the man who had slugged and robbed him and left him for dead. The man he thought he could call a friend, but who had ultimately paid the penalty of being less swift and accurate with a gun than Jess Harper.

What would have happened if he'd ridden on into Laramie that day, seeking retribution? What if he had never met the tall blonde rancher with whom he had so nearly come to blows over a little matter of trespassing on private property? A fine way to start the best friendship he had ever experienced! It made him grin to think that, from being a homeless and feckless saddle-tramp with a fast gun and no ties, he was now the protector and developer of the very same property. Because it also seemed such a short time in which he had come to know Slim Sherman and to forge with him a strong and successful working partnership which combined highly effectively their respective skills and strengths. This was despite the fact that Slim was often exasperated by Jess's impulsive recklessness and Jess ribbed Slim unmercifully for his serious attitude to life.

For that reason alone, it was a good job the first person Jess had got to know on the relay station was Slim's feisty kid brother, with whose rebellious desire for freedom Jess had felt an immediate and deep-rooted affinity. Andy had taken Jess instantly under his youthful wing and fought his cause staunchly on every issue, even the ones he knew perfectly well Jess was in the wrong about. At twelve years old, Andy was still full of energy and mischief, with a desire to seize whatever opportunities life had to offer and a wicked sense of humour which exactly matched Jess's own. If the pair of them often drove Slim half-mad with their irrepressible antics and jokes, these released something in Jess which had been ruthlessly hidden and suppressed since he'd first been driven out of his childhood home in Texas.

In contrast to the stable and conservative upbringing which the Sherman brothers had experienced, Jess's young life had been characterised by trouble and danger. His unpredictable character and violent background caused both Slim and Jonesy, the ranch's faithful cook and handyman, some heart-searching at first. This was because Andy, and the way Slim was trying to bring him up after the loss of both their parents, was often a bone of contention between the ranch-owner and his employee. It was as well that Jonesy, with his wisdom, humour and domestic skills, held body and soul together for them all. It was equally important that he was there to umpire and arbitrate as the father-figure whom all three of them lacked.

But whatever the disagreements, bickering and sometimes outright scrapping that took place over the two young men's different viewpoints on life, they also had a total respect for and trust in each other. They gave unfailing support to each other in the face of danger, of which, it must be said, they encountered plenty, both in the ranch work and in the hazards which passing strangers could bring with them. And there was never any doubt at all about the depth of feeling Jess had for the little brother he had adopted as his own.

He'd ridden in that evening, half expecting Andy to be hanging on the gate or even swinging from a branch of the great oak tree which marked the boundary of the western ridge trail. Andy, waiting to ambush him with the huge hug of unconditional affection that Jess still found a source of wonder and surprise, as well as of deep contentment. He'd promised Slim nothing would happen to the boy or to Jonesy, while it was within his power to prevent it. But, in truth, he'd have willingly given his own life for all three of them without any promise to bind him.

But the yard was quiet. Too quiet. There was a stillness about the place he didn't recognise and which immediately put him on full alert. He left Traveller standing ready in the shadow of the barn and trod silently towards the house, noting that there were no lights at the windows, no smoke from the chimney. The whole place was as silent as a grave.

When he cautiously opened the front door, he found Jonesy, sitting at the table - sobbing.

Young man and old stared at each other. For Jonesy was old now, no disguising it. Something had robbed him of his vitality and left a husk, cleaned out of wisdom and song. He said; "Jess, they took the boy. They took Andy!"

Jess froze. In the horror of the moment, he felt as if he had been mortally wounded. Then his mind pushed aside all feelings of guilt, blame and recrimination, all anger and retribution, to concentrate on the facts of what had happened. Although his every reflex was tightened like lightning about to strike, he came quietly over to the table, sat down and took Jonesy's shaking hands in his own.

"Jonesy, tell me what happened."

"They came this mornin', from Laramie. Mort Corey was with them. They took Andy away with them, Jess."

"Who took him, Jonesy? Tell it like it happened."

"The lawyers. They rode in on the mornin' stage to Cheyenne, with Mort followin', and took the boy onto the stage with them. Mort said they had the legal right. They were from his guardians, his next of kin."

"Next of kin?" It didn't make sense. Slim was Andy's next of kin. The youngster had no need of guardians, let alone lawyers. And why would the sheriff be backing up anyone else's claim? If it was legal, for whatever reason, why would they need the protection of a lawman?

"What next of kin?" Jess demanded again, his voice rasping with a horror that reflected the savage shock to his mind.

Jonesy looked up, his own grief all too clearly etched on his tear-stained face. How could he put it into words? How could he express the devastation of nearly thirty years of loving care, guardianship and devotion he had given unstintingly to the Sherman family and, most of all, to the sons? And how could he tell Jess? How could he be the one to sever the indescribable bond which had grown between two such very different young men?

He found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes driven to blackness by shock and impending grief. Somehow Jess knew without telling. Time seemed to stop as they sat there at the table, in a room grown cold and ghostly with the memory of all that had been. Then Jess stirred, rose slowly and came round the table. He put both arms round Jonesy, holding him gently, rocking him as the old man must once have rocked a much younger Slim. There were no words.

It had been later, when he had dosed an unprotesting Jonesy with the medicinal whisky he had so often supplied to the two younger men, and persuaded him finally to sleep, that Jess had found the letter addressed to himself.

' _Sir,_

 _As executors of the estate of the late Matthew John Sherman (Junior), we are issuing you with notice that your contract of employment with the Sherman Relay Station will cease from 10th of this month. You will be paid in full to the end of the month on the terms agreed._

 _An audit and inventory of the assets of the said Sherman Relay Station will be conducted by our agents, who will arrive on the date. You are reminded that you are personally responsible for any defalcations or shortcomings._

 _You are required to quit the premises on the 10th when our agents will take sole possession for the duration of the minority of Andrew Sherman._

 _Yours faithfully_ ,'

And later still, screwed up in a tear-stained ball, he had also found the letter which had been sent to Jonesy. It had not been much better, but it did at least invite him as a "faithful long-term servant of the family" to travel to St Louis by the 15th of the month and offered to reimburse him for his travelling expenses. The letter went on: "You will understand that prolonged contact with the young heir to the estate is inadvisable, as he will require time to adjust to his new status and situation." Jonesy was instructed to stay with his own relatives in the town and await details of the **…** funeral.

 _Andy!_ Jess had doubled over the table in gut-wrenching pain at the thought of the boy in the hands of strangers as he faced this final bereavement, more terrible because it was so distant. Andy would have no-one to turn to, no-one who knew him as he really was, no-one who could share his pain. Having lost both his parents not so very long ago, how would he possibly bear now being bereft of his only brother? But Jess simply could not think about Slim, unless it was to cry desolately in his innermost being: _Why did you have to go? Why did you leave us?_

Even later still, he had remembered Traveller, faithfully waiting. He had gone out to the barn, made the horse comfortable and spent the rest of the night leaning against him, the last solid thing in a dissolving world **…..**

 **# # # # #**

… **..** He stood, now, staring at the letter in the gathering dusk. Since that night, he had not sat down at the table. He had not eaten. He had not slept. He had drunk deeply but only water, knowing that he must drink to keep functioning. Functioning in a world as grey to him as the thin layer of dust which was insidiously covering everything in the ranch house.

After that first night, he had not retreated to the barn. If he was to bear this at all, he had to face the reality of the ranch, where every single thing was a reminder. He cleared the living room, laid the fire, set the kitchen in order and made up the stove without lighting it, tidied the bunk-room and made the beds, for all the world as if he expected everyone suddenly to walk in and the world to return to normal. But he knew it could not. He was just preparing for an audit, an inventory of assets.

Similarly outside, the yard and barn were set in immaculate order, stock fed and tended, horses readied for the changing of the stage teams. Word had spread quickly along the stage line, for Slim Sherman had been liked and respected by everyone who knew him. The drivers and guards were full of sympathy for his ranch-hand and friend, whom they had come to see as hard-working and reliable, despite his hair-trigger reputation. But one look at Jess quelled any impulse to express this feeling. The easy banter which had developed as he got to know the teams might never have been. Now he was monosyllabic at best and more often than not totally silent, his face expressionless and his eyes hard as steel. If he was grieving, this was the only way it showed, by making him unapproachable in a way that he had never been as a newcomer to the station.

Now he stood staring at the letter, thinking, planning **…..** After forty eight hours, the initial shock had gone through him, leaving only an iron will keeping him to his purpose.

He was on his own now on the silent ranch. Jonesy had gone, following Andy, the last of his adopted sons, the last of his children. His final act had been to take the buckboard bearing Andy's menagerie to a like-minded friend in town because both he and Jess were convinced it would break Andy's heart all over again to lose the animals he had rescued, raised and cared for. But what would Andy think when Jess did not come to St Louis too? What kind of betrayal would it seem, when the friend who had been closer even than a brother deserted him? Jonesy would not be allowed to explain, Jess was certain of that. For some reason, Andy was being cut off from the people who loved him. The only hope lay in the words Jess had entrusted to Jonesy: "Tell him I have something to finish." Only Andy would know the promise which was enshrined in those words: the promise Jess had made to him that whenever and where ever he had to go away, he would always find Andy again, when he had finished what he had set out to do.

It was what had happened to Andy which raised not just fury and disbelief, but a sense of foreboding in him, in the same way that expertise and experience would have warned him of the coming of an ambush, a stampede or a storm. The tone of the lawyer's letters he could understand, but not a family who would deprive a child in such a situation of the support and comfort of those who knew him best. They might dismiss Jess himself as a mere employee of the relay station, but they could not fail to know how many years Jonesy had lived with the Sherman family and what trust Slim put in him. Why had he not travelled with Andy? What was meant by Andy's 'new status and situation'? Why had he been taken away without even so much a female relative to comfort him? After all, Slim had been on the point of marrying one.

That letter was still in the breast pocket of the shirt Jess was wearing. Slim had written to Andy regularly once a week while he had been away, detailing the differences of life in a bustling and expanding city and showing clearly that he was enjoying the new experiences his wealthy Sherman relatives were providing. Despite being descended from one of his less reputable great uncles, this branch of the family was most respectable and moved in the highest echelons of St Louis society. Slim had mentioned his meeting with a remote second cousin, Catherine Sherman-Gordon, described her as beautiful and charming, said they enjoyed spending time together, but nothing more. It was only in the single, private letter he had written to Jess that he had been more forthcoming, pouring out his real feelings and his growing passion for her. Jess had read his enthusiastic descriptions with an affectionate grin: he knew Slim, despite his normal practicality, was an incurable romantic when it came to women. In all probability, Jess reckoned, he would come to his senses before long and realise a city-bred girl was highly unlikely to be suited to the hard life of the ranch and relay station. It was only right at the end of the letter, when Slim had written 'the pastor having ruled that consanguinity is no impediment', that the seriousness of this relationship had dawned upon him.

This letter was the last word he would ever have from Slim. He needed to be absolutely sure of the details, if he was to make any attempt to work out what had happened and to find out if Andy was being truly cared for. But he simply could not force himself to take the folded paper from his pocket and read it again. He was only conscious of a sickening anguish because this woman, who was supposed to care for Slim, had apparently given no thought at all to the feelings his little brother would experience at this terrible moment. And Jess was in no doubt whatsoever that Slim would have told the woman he loved how important Andy was to him.

He stood for a long time, leaning his hands on the table until he could barely feel his arms – thinking, planning **…..**

Presently he made his first definite decision. Going quietly and methodically through the house, he selected the things he thought would matter most to Andy, when he was able to look at them again. If someone else, who cared so little for the boy's grief, was going to take over the running of the relay station, there was no guarantee that they would have any respect for Andy's memories of his family. He took care not to remove all the personal touches from what the agent would expect to look like a family home – there was no sense in provoking a search for missing items – but he did his best to pick out things which would be special to Andy because they were associated with his parents and Slim. Whatever happened when the relay station was taken over, there would be precious items which would not be lost for ever. These Jess wrapped carefully in waterproof tarpaulin, found an old iron chest in the barn in which they fitted and, in the darkness of the night, took them out onto the ridge above the ranch-house and buried them.

* * *

 _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._


	2. Chapter 2

_'A brother is a friend God gave you;_

 _a friend is a brother your heart chose.'_

Proverb

 **GONE**

 **2**

The next morning Jess was the first customer to enter the bank in Laramie when it opened. In curt tones, he asked for a balance of his savings and, having received it, proceeded to give the surprised banker some very specific instructions.

"Je – Mr Harper, you cannot be serious?"

That was a mistake. Jess's formidable scowl bore down on the banker. He was in no mood to have his orders questioned. Nonetheless, the man continued. His professional responsibilities were greater than his fear of impending retribution from his client.

"You do realise that this mandate will give unrestricted access to your account by the persons you have named?"

"Exactly!" The glare now directed at him was terrifying, but the bank manager persisted valiantly.

"I can, of course, see that the one name might be appropriate and as for the other, I am aware of his reputation, but –"

He got no further. Jess leaned across the desk and said simply, "I can close the account and take the balance elsewhere."

No banker wants money withdrawn which could contribute to his profits. But the man remained profoundly shaken by the implications of what Jess had just set in motion, not to mention the sizable withdrawal that he had made at the same time.

"I don't need to remind you, Mr Standon, that these instructions are confidential - do I?"

The narrowing of Jess's eyes and the grim line of his lips left the banker in no doubt as to what would happen if he gossiped; like everyone else in Laramie, he was familiar with Harper's reputation. Besides, he knew how hard the man had worked to help Slim Sherman pay off his bank loan on the relay station and that, on its own, had earned his respect. Despite the misgivings he had expressed and his professional opinion, he promised to carry out Jess's orders immediately and to the letter.

Leaving the bank, Jess went directly to the Telegraph Office. To the surprise of the clerk in charge, he spent some time in what was obviously deep thought. Then he wrote a number of cryptic words on the form and handed the telegram over to be dispatched. As he began to send it, the clerk's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. He looked up to find that he was being watched intently.

"You sure about this, Jess?" he enquired cautiously, knowing the young man's temper and being unwilling to invite a demonstration of it. At the same time, he spoke because he had a professional responsibility: "It don't seem to make a lotta sense."

Like many others, he had heard what had happened at the relay station. He knew both young men well, and the kid too, not to mention old Jonesy. It seemed a whole heap of bad luck that things should have worked out as they had, but the telegram made him wonder how clearly Jess was thinking and how badly he'd been affected by the shock. Made him wonder, in fact, if Jess actually knew what he had written.

"I know exactly what I mean. Just send it!" Jess growled, and stood over him until he did.

Coming out of the Telegraph Office, Jess paused for a moment, looking down the street. In the early morning, it was relatively quiet, just like the first time he had seen it. Then the whole town had been hiding from the Carlin gang and someone had taken a shot at him. Not that he could blame them – a drifter looks very much like an outlaw to a frightened deputy and in truth there were times when he had indeed ridden on the wrong side of the law. It had caused him an ironical inward chuckle when, more than once after that, he had been sworn in on the law's side in Laramie and worn that same deputy's badge. He had no illusions about the extent to which this changed response had depended on the trust that Slim, first of all, had placed in him - the unique trust that only someone of absolute integrity can give.

Now the scene struck into him like blow in the guts. The whole street was dead - the saloon, the hotel, the livery stable, the store - all grey and empty like derelict buildings in a ghost town. Around him the early risers of the community might be going about their business, but he was alone in a lifeless world, surrounded by people, yet separated from his fellow human beings by an inescapable shroud. It was as if every vestige of warmth had been drained from him, as if he were cut off from everything by a sheet of ice, thin but unbreakable as steel. And it was no good thinking of the past or remembering other times when he - when they - had walked along this street. Now a cold wind breathed over his spirit and an iron grip on his soul steered him on a course he had never thought he would take. Now he had to face someone in a way that seared like a freezing brand across his heart and mind.

He jammed his hat on and strode along the street to the Sheriff's Office and his first encounter with Mort Cory since Andy's removal from the ranch.

Mort was just beginning his day by sorting the post and paper work when the door opened and he had to endure the meeting he had been dreading. Although he had had no option but to co-operate with those who had the law on their side, he had been racked with agonising guilt ever since. The lawyers had made it all too clear that he was there to prevent interference, not to carry it out himself. He had done his duty, even though committing Andy onto the stage-coach that had born him away had been the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

He had known Slim and Andy's parents long before the boys were born and, when civil war came, he had been the one to train and lead, discipline and inspire, and occasionally rescue, their eldest son. Hell, Slim had got that scar on his cheek fighting alongside Mort! After the Shermans' unexpected and too close deaths, Mort had done his best to provide fatherly support for the upright and conscientious young man who took his responsibilities as head of the family so seriously. And of course he had had misgivings when Andy decided to adopt, as his latest stray, a two-legged one, a volatile and unsettling young drifter with a dubious past and a scarily fast gun.

Well, he had been wrong about that one, hadn't he? It had worked out in the way that opposites sometimes do. Slim had provided the bed-rock stability that Jess needed – Jess even nick-named him "Hard Rock" and had been known to joke that this included his head! Slim's deep integrity, sound reasoning and steadfast sense of justice, not to mention his generosity and often-tried patience, were able to temper something of Jess's reckless wildness. And Jess had given Slim companionship of his own age, a spontaneous and unfettered sense of freedom, a way of acting straight from the honour of the heart, and an appreciation of fun that lightened up life at the relay station, especially for Andy. And he had proved to be shrewd beyond his years, unexpectedly hard-working and utterly loyal. In fact, as Jonesy had observed to Mort on several occasions, it didn't matter how much they argued and occasionally fought – over a woman, Andy's well-being or how to hammer in a fence-post – they stood resolutely by each other whatever was thrown at them. Mort had often smiled a little as he thought of them standing together because not only were they opposites in temperament and background, but Slim was well over six foot, heavily muscled and fair as a Viking, while Jess was easily a hand shorter, lean, dark and as tough as whipcord.

Mort looked up quickly and saw Jess's unmistakable silhouette against the early morning sunshine that flooded through the doorway. He could see nothing else, not even Jess's face because it was shadowed by his hat which, contrary to his normal courtesy, he had not removed. What Mort was instantly aware of was the tightly controlled energy and raw power driving the younger man. His heart gave an unexpected lurch and his experienced reflexes nearly sent him straight into preventative action, such was the force this perception. He had seen Jess like this before, when he was hell-bent on a personal mission to sort out something that contravened his sense of honour; it boded ill for someone somewhere.

Before the sheriff could open his mouth or give a greeting or indeed take any action, Jess snapped out: "Tell people not to come, Mort."

"Wh – what?"

"Tell them not to come to the ranch. They're gonna want to come, but don't let 'em." His breath hitched painfully and then he added, "Please!"

"But, Jess –" Mort struggled to find the right words, "Jess, they're neighbours, friends – they'll come out of respect for him! Surely that's right?"

"It may be right –" Mort heard the breath rasp in his throat again. "- But I can't take it!" The admission hung in the air between them as if carved with a knife. Before Mort could speak or offer any comfort to this desolation, Jess went on abruptly, "Besides, there'll soon be no-one there – no-one who cares, anyway!" He took two swift strides across the room and gripped the other man's hand. "Goodbye, Mort."

Before Mort could say anything, he had gone and only the movement of the door, swinging aimlessly behind him, showed that he had ever been there. If it had not been for the sting in his fingers from that powerful hand-grip, Mort would have felt as if he had had an encounter with a shadow, a ghost, rather than with the vital young man he thought he knew so well.


	3. Chapter 3

_'A brother is a friend God gave you;_

 _a friend is a brother your heart chose.'_

Proverb

 **GONE**

 **3**

Despite his expressed wish to avoid people, late on the evening of the same day that he had been to town, Jess rode through the darkness to the ranch's nearest neighbours. The Travers lived high up in the next valley, on an old mine trail, and, since the track went nowhere else, they were not likely to be bothered by many visitors.

Dan Travers and his sons were sitting out on the porch, taking a well-earned rest after a hard day's hunting and trapping, when they heard the sound of several horses coming quietly up the valley. Dan reached over for his shotgun and motioned the boys to take covering positions. It was as well to leave nothing to chance.

Presently a single rider with two led horses drew to a halt in the yard. Dan went down to greet him.

"Jess! It's good to see you, but what in tarnation are you doin' here at this time of night?"

"Come to ask you a favour, Dan. I need somewhere to leave these two." Jess was leading Traveller and the second string he had been training, a rangy flea-bitten grey mustang. "Will you take them for me – keep 'em out of sight for a while? You know they're mine and I'll leave the papers with you."

"Sure, Jess, no problem." Dan had taken one look at his face and decided not to ask any questions about this unexpected request. He led the way over to the barn.

"I appreciate it, Dan – there ain't many I'd trust with them." Jess hesitated a moment, then went on. "I don't think it'll bring trouble on you or I wouldn't ask it, but keep 'em out of sight for the next few days, just in case, will y'?"

 _Just in case of what?_ Dan wanted to ask. He had his family to consider and parts of Jess's past were pretty violent. But he had also learnt that Jess was to be trusted absolutely, so he made no comment, just worked with him silently to settle the two horses comfortably and to stow their gear. He noted that this included not just saddle and bridles, but Jess's bedroll, saddle-bags and the other equipment he would need when travelling. _What the heck was going on?_

The unexpected arrival had not gone unnoticed in the lamp-lit cabin and, as they walked back across the yard, Dan could see his wife, Martha, standing anxiously on the porch. The boys would have told her who had come and Dan knew she would not want to let Jess go without assuring herself he was in one piece, which he very often wasn't.

"Come in and have some coffee," Dan told the younger man. "She'll give me hell if you don't!"

The fire, the lamplight, the warmth of the family, hit Jess like a physical blow. He almost backed out again, but, with a huge effort, controlled his impulse to run. He took off his hat and held out his hand to Martha. As he came into the light, Martha and Dan could see clearly for the first time that something was deeply wrong. Jess had never carried any spare weight, but the harshness of the previous days had left his body gaunt and the lean planes of his face shadowed and sharp, as if someone had taken a blade and carved the loss into him. The mobile expressions which normally chased themselves across his face were gone and in their place was a hard mask that gave away nothing. Even the brightness of his blue eyes was darkened and withdrawn.

Martha felt the hand in hers tremble for just a moment. It was cold and hard too, as if all the warmth had drained out of him. She remembered other times, the quick humour, laughter and fun, the generosity, loyalty and affection which lay alongside the deeply buried, bitter past that she could sense but had never asked about. Enough to know it existed. Now it seemed to be the only thing remaining.

"You're cold, come and sit down," she invited.

Jess shook his head. "I can't!" He turned away to lean against the mantelpiece, staring into the fire and forcing her to let go of him. "The news hasn't reached you, then?" They waited tensely until he was able to go on. "The ranch and relay station are going to be run by agents of the Sherman family until Andy's old enough to take them on. They're going to do a stock count. That's why I want my horses out of there, even though I legally own them and can prove it."

Husband and wife stared at him in shock, working out the implications of this. Dan gasped out "You mean –"

"I don't know what happened." Jess's voice was icily controlled. "I ain't been told. Andy's in St Louis. Jonesy's gone to join him for –"

He stopped abruptly.

Martha's instant instinct was to reach out and fold him in her arms, but Dan's hand on her shoulder restrained her. There are only so many things a man can stand and sometimes comfort is not one of them.

"Sally, get some coffee in here!" Martha called instead to her eldest daughter, who was in the kitchen. "Bring some whisky, too."

"No whiskey!" Jess's tone was adamant. They looked at him in surprise, since he'd never been known before to refuse this welcome addition. When Sally brought him the mug of coffee he took it from her without really looking up. He stood cradling the warmth in his hands and staring at the drink as if he'd never seen a mug of coffee before. When he lifted it to his lips, he drank it cautiously and without enjoyment, exactly as if it had been poison. He just managed to force most of it down, although it made his empty stomach want to heave.

"Thanks." He moved to place the mug carefully on the table in the middle of the room, still giving the impression that he was having to work out deliberately his every action. Martha guessed from this that he was in a state of sleepless exhaustion but she knew it would be no good saying anything. Jess had clearly set himself some task and would drive himself until he dropped in order to achieve it. Now he just picked up his hat, took the registration papers from his pocket, handed them to Dan and moved to the door. "Thanks for everything," he said again.

He would have gone without any further conversation, but Sally gave a half-sob and turned to her father. "Pa, may I speak with Jess for a moment?"

"No need to ask, girl!" Dan gave her a pat on the shoulder and an encouraging push towards the porch. "Never know'd you need permission before."

He exchanged another glance with Martha as Sally followed Jess out of the room. It was Slim who had most often found a pretext for visiting when Sally was home from her hospital work and neither of her parents found any reason to discourage him. The two families had been neighbours since the Shermans first claimed their land and Slim and Sally had virtually grown up together. Jess, the newcomer, had visited less often, sometimes by himself and teasingly suggesting that he was cutting Slim out, sometimes along with the young rancher, when their high spirits had set the place alight. Between them they had squired Sally to dances and socials, picnics and parties, whenever any of them had time from the hard-working routine of their daily lives. Martha was not certain where and how far Sally's heart was engaged, but she knew that Jess's news could break it.

"Jess!" He was already down the steps when Sally called after him. He turned slowly back towards her, suddenly realising she had not been party to the conversation with her parents and bracing himself for another wound he could not escape. "Jess, tell me the truth – is it Slim?"

"I'm sorry, Sally – I'm a coward – I should have told you directly, but I can't speak –" He broke off, turning his face away and looking down so that she could not see his expression. When he spoke again, he was obviously forcing every word out. "All I can tell you is that he's gone."

"Oh Jess, I'm sorry." Her voice trembled, faltered with the strain of holding back her tears. "I'm so sorry for you and for him."

Her unexpected sensitivity nearly broke Jess's resolve. Every ounce of his formidable will had to be summoned and fiercely employed to cope with this new challenge. But there was both worse and better to come.

Sally said "Jess, how is Andy? Thank God he's got you and Jonesy!"

"Andy's been taken away to his relatives in St Louis. Jonesy's gone too, but I don't think they'll let him –" Jess's painful explanation was interrupted by Sally's anguished cry: "How could they! How could they do that to him?"

She was crying in earnest now, overwhelmed with the thought of the young boy's loss and the pain he must be suffering, alone and among strangers. Jess simply stepped towards her and took her in his arms, holding her strongly, his fingers gently caressing her hair and face, until the storm of sobbing ceased.

Presently Sally gave a convulsive shudder that put an end to her tears. Jess released her at once, felt in his pocket and produced a somewhat battered handkerchief.

"Here, you need this." He gently mopped up the glistening drops and then took her chin between strong fingers, lifting her face so she looked him in the eyes.

"Sally, I can't make it any better than it is. But I promise you, when I've done what I have to do, I'll come back and tell you the truth of it."

Sally was stricken by the anguish she was reading from his mask-like expression and shadowed eyes, but she managed the ghost of a smile. "I know you will. Traveller makes a good hostage."

"Yeah. He's the only thing I've got left, so you take good care of him for me."

 _Then why are you leaving him_? was the question she wanted to ask, but Jess had already mounted the spare horse he had ridden up from the ranch. He sat looking down at her for a moment, but neither of them had the strength to say goodbye. Sally stood staring after him long after he had ridden away into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

_'A brother is a friend God gave you;_

 _a friend is a brother your heart chose.'_

Proverb

 **GONE**

 **4**

And the next day was the 10th. Jess expected the agents who were taking over to arrive early in the day and that he would be allowed to leave when they were satisfied with their inventory.

When he returned from the Travers he had locked up and then gone to the concealed hiding place in the chimney breast. He took out his gunfighter's weapon and, as he did so, dislodged something else which had also been placed in the hidden cavity. Jess picked it up and saw that it was a sealed envelope addressed to Slim by his given name, Matthew John Sherman. He held it for a long moment, wondering how it had got there and why, but even the sight of the formal name was too painful. He thrust it back into the cavity and replaced the stone, taking care that it showed no hint of what it really was.

Then he stumbled into the bunkroom, stripped off shirt and boots and lay on his bunk, forcing himself to relax his muscles. The empty beds and the deserted bottom bunk were like open wounds and even in the darkness every single item in the room was a silent reminder goading him.

He had expected them early, but not that early. It was a little after midnight when a key turned silently in the locked front door. The yard dogs gave no warning.

 **# # # # #**

Rueben Bradley walked quietly in and surveyed the darkened living room by the moonlight leaking through the uncurtained window. Then he motioned to the three men accompanying him, indicating the closed door to the bunkroom. Stealthily they crept into position. At a hand-signal from Bradley, they slammed the door open.

It was unlucky for them that Jess was not sleeping, but resting, open-eyed, as he had every other night. It was also lucky for them that, having heard their entry and knowing that no-one else would have a key, he did not go first for his gun. But, as a result, far from overwhelming an unsuspecting, sleeping man, they found themselves struggling to subdue a steel and whipcord demon, who was bent on doing as much damage to them as was possible with bare hands. Three to one was not bad odds for Jess, had he been in peak condition, but the privations of previous days had taken their toll and, despite his fury, his blows were slower and less vicious than they might normally have been. Eventually, his arms were twisted savagely behind his back and he was forced into the living room where the agent was waiting.

"Mind the furniture!" Bradley ordered, seeing his men were still struggling to hold down the man he had come to eject from the ranch. "Mr Sherman will have any breakages out of your wages."

He stuck a match and lit the lamp standing on the table. By its glow, he turned and moved leisurely to survey Jess, bare-foot and shirtless and already marked by the efforts to subdue him. "You might just as well stop struggling, Harper. I am Rueben Bradley and I have full legal authority as the agent of Nathaniel Sherman to take over the management of this ranch and relay station. I'm here to see that you leave and don't come back and I have no objection to making that absolutely clear to you."

There was no response. The man in front of him stood braced like a coiled spring, just waiting to turn the least slip on their part into mayhem.

Bradley shrugged. "Well, your reputation and your current behaviour don't suggest you'll be willing to go quietly. I think we shall have to apply some persuasion."

There was burst of anticipatory laughter from the men holding Jess and one of them said gleefully "You want us to start on him now?"

"Not in here. I told you Mr Sherman wants this place to look absolutely normal, as if there'd been no change. No-one must have any reason to doubt that things are being run just as before, in the little boy's name. So take this … saddle tramp … to the barn and make him understand what will happen if he comes within a hundred miles of anything with the name Sherman on it again. Then we can get rid of him."

"What's to stop him talkin' – about the fact that he didn't leave willin'?"

"Use your brains - we rely on his southern pride! Make sure the success of your methods of persuasion is something he'd rather not discuss with anyone." He ran his eye over Jess's body and grinned. "And don't touch his face or his hands – I don't want a mark on him that anyone can see. He's got to take that morning stage and the stage teams know him."

He turned away, ignoring the difficulty that the other three were still having in restraining their slight captive and dragging him outside. Presently the sounds died away and the barn door groaned shut. Rummaging through the cupboards, Bradley found Jonesy's hoard of medicinal whisky and settled back in the rocking chair to enjoy the screams that he anticipated hearing quite soon. When none were forthcoming, he shrugged – they'd probably gagged him.

 **# # # # #**

Rueben Bradley dozed peacefully until first light began to filter into the room. Then he got up, stretched and made his way out to the barn. No need to risk any early morning callers finding out what was happening. He pushed open the door and surveyed the scene within.

The horses were restless and edgy, as well they might be, following a night of unaccustomed activity. His men were lounging about the place, obviously taking a break from their orders, and smoking, which also upset the horses. He was none too pleased with this stupidity and wasted no time in telling them in choice terms what would happen if they ever did anything that irresponsible again. "Can I remind you that this is a well-run relay station with an excellent reputation? Mr Sherman wants it to stay that way, not burn down!"

Then he turned his attention to Harper. He was still standing, but that might have been because his arms had been lashed to one of the stall partitions. Contrary to the agent's expectation, he was not gagged. Bradley picked up a lantern and examined state of the young man's body carefully. He inspected the wheals, bruises, cuts, burns and lashes liberally distributed about his torso, noting that the main damage was to his back where it would show least. He expressed his qualified approval. "Neat job, boys – not too much blood, but I trust there's been enough pain to make him wish he'd never heard the name 'Sherman'?"

"You bet!" The assertion was accompanied by scornful laughter. "He won't want to tangle with the boss again."

"Mr Sherman to you." Bradley moved with the speed of a whiplash and struck the speaker across the mouth. "Now, you two, get on with the morning chores. Stevens, cut him down and get him into that shower outside. Can't have him looking as if he's been up all night enjoying himself."

"You want me to tie him, Mr Bradley?"

"Only if you think you can't handle him."

They should both have known better. Jess walked meekly enough outside and gladly into the shower, which shook him awake as well as washing away some of the physical filth he was feeling. Stevens leaned against the door, treating him to further examples of his particularly crude sense of humour. Jess ignored him until the water ran out.

When it did, he gave an almighty kick to the shower door, which slammed hard into Steven's body. As the man staggered back, Jess leapt on him with all the silent, pent-up fury that had been building within him. Stevens went down without a sound; it was a while before Jess drew breath and stopped hitting him. Then he straightened up, turned on his heel and strode contemptuously back to the ranch house. Half way across the yard, he stopped. No wonder the dogs had not given warning. He stared at their twisted carcases for a moment, before he gently touched the head of each one. It was not their fault – but gratuitous poisoning was certainly going to be added to someone's account.

 **# # # # #**

The front door of the ranch-house crashed open and Rueben Bradley looked up to see the last thing he expected – his prisoner, unnervingly free and minus any guard, dripping wet from the shower but confident as if he had been clad in armour. Harper totally ignored him and stalked across into the bunk-room, slamming the door behind him. Bradley hastily drew his gun, leapt to his feet and looked out into the yard. What he saw caused him to yell for his men. By the time they had disposed of Stevens, who showed no signs of coming round, and of the dogs, Bradley had recovered his poise and returned to his place at the table, where he had been drinking coffee. He did not, however, reholster his gun. The other two men came in to report and he ordered them to get ready for the early morning stage that he knew was due to run by in a short while. "And make sure you're quick about it. Don't give the crew the opportunity to ask any questions. I want Harper on it and out of here for good!"

As if on cue, the bunk-room door opened and Jess emerged, fully clad as usual in battered denims, blue shirt, black waistcoat. In his hand was a small and rather worn carpet-bag which, Bradley presumed, contained his belongings. Evidently he was not going to try to make off with anything that belonged to the relay station. He halted in front of the table and stood looking stonily at the floor, avoiding eye-contact with the agent.

The door opened and one of the men hurried in. "Stage is comin' in, Mr Bradley."

"So we come to the parting of the ways, Harper. And just in case you think that Mr Sherman is an unreasonable man …" The agent felt in his pocket and produced three $100 bills. "Your wages to the end of the year."

There was no reaction until Bradley came round the table and forced the money on him. When he did so, Jess just held the bills stretched between his two hands for a moment before slowly ripping them in half. Then he folded them, very deliberately, and stowed them in the pocket of his shirt, where they rustled against some other piece of paper.

Stunned for a moment, Bradley recovered himself enough to say "More fool you!"

Jess ignored him and reached for his gun-belt which was lying on the table. The other man moved as if to prevent him, but Bradley snapped "Let him be! The gun's not loaded and the stage teams know him. He'd look naked without it."

Bradley watched as Jess strapped on the belt and tied it down, noting the sure and automatic movements of a man performing a familiar and essential action. Even if the gun was empty, there was something menacing in being face to face with a gunfighter of Harper's reputation.

Jess picked up his bag and walked over to the door. He reached for his black hat from the otherwise bare rack. That single sight hurt him much more than he would have thought possible.

In the yard, Mose, the regular driver, had pulled up the fretting team, who were just getting into their stride and did not want it interrupted. He was surprised to see Jess walk up to the coach, obviously ready to leave, and to have strangers checking the rig instead.

"Danged if'n I knows what the world's comin' to!" he muttered to himself, but aloud he called out, "You comin' up on the box, Jess?"

"Anyone inside?" Jess spoke for the first time.

"No-one, you got it all to yourself. Just carryin' freight right now." The old man jerked his chin in the direction of the roof, his hands being fully occupied with the reins.

"Then I guess I'll put my boots up in comfort."

"You just keep them spurs off the dang'd upholstery!" Mose warned him, still very puzzled.

The smartly dressed man who had followed Jess out of the ranch-house called "Goodbye, Mr Harper. Pleasant journey. I'll be sure to remember you, should we meet again."

Jess paused and turned back on the step of the coach. He looked hard at Bradley. His eyes narrowed. His tones were cold and impersonal. "I'm sure you will. I'm in your debt, Mr Bradley. You must remind me, when we meet again, what I owe you!"

The coach door shut behind him and Mose clucked to the horses, urging them on. Soon the stage was lost to view in a whirl of dust. Rueben Bradley turned back to the ranch-house, a contented smile on his face; he was convinced that, although he would recognise the dark, unruly hair tumbling over the forehead above those blazing blue eyes, he would never see Jess Harper again.

In the coach Jess wedged himself as comfortably as he could across the seats, deliberately shut down his recollection of all that had happened that night and in the last week and, for the length of the journey to Cheyenne, finally allowed himself to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

' _Act well your part,_

 _there all the honour lies_.'

Alexander Pope

 **CALLING IN OBLIGATIONS**

 **5**

 _Exile_

 _Silence and darkness. Black night smothering sight and sound and feeling. Andy Sherman stared blankly at the equally blank window. On the blackness of the night not a single star was showing. His eyes strained to see just one, the precious one. He could hear Jess's voice telling him: "That's the Mother star. She rises at evening and doesn't fade until dawn and all night long she's watchin' over you, even if you can't see her." Now there was nothing and no-one. Only an echoing void of darkness waiting to swallow every light. He pressed his forehead to the ice-cold glass and spent the rest of the night leaning against it, an unfeeling and invisible support in a blank and featureless world._

As the stage pulled into Cheyenne, Jess woke up. He was stiff from his awkward sleeping position and the jolting motion of the coach had battered him in a way he would not have been able to ignore, had he not been so utterly spent and exhausted. His body was protesting, as well it might, from the additional punishment added to all that it had had to take in the last night. But as soon as they drew to a halt, he stretched, yawned and managed to jump from the coach as if nothing had happened. Almost instantly, his mind took charge, as it always did, pushing the physical pain into some part of his brain where it could be locked away and ignored. It was a useful skill, simply shutting down the demands of the body until they could be dealt with. He knew that he would go on functioning with cold and ruthless efficiency, not sparing himself, as he had done ever since the letter had arrived.

"Where y'goin', Jess **?"** Mose called down from the box as he alighted.

"Texas," Jess replied curtly.

"What, right now? It's a heck of a long walk!" the old man reminded him.

Jess dragged to the front of his mind the fact that Mose had been a staunch supporter of the Sherman Relay Station, a friend of Slim and Andy, not to mention someone who had accepted a wandering gun-slinger on to the team without, surprisingly, a single murmur. He did not really want to hurt the old man by cutting short the conversation, even though his inquisitiveness rasped across Jess's raw nerves and made him want to escape or hide or become suddenly invisible.

"Right now I'm gettin' a bath." He pointed to the hotel and picked up his bag.

"At this time in the afternoon?"

"Yeah. Right now."

The old man looked keenly at him, sensing that Jess was literally washing his old life off him. He wanted, like everyone else, to say something which would help, but conventional expressions were going to be worse than useless, even if he had been the kind to utter them. Years of ordinary, straightforward living and a simple sense of human solidarity made him decide to settle for something practical instead: "Come over to the saloon when y're finished. I'll stand y' a drink."

Jess hesitated for a fraction of a second, then made up his mind. "Thanks. I'll see y' later."

"Not too much later," Mose warned. "I'm as dry as a creek bottom in summer." He gave Jess another keen look, then added some pertinent advice: "Jess, get some food down y'. I ain't keen on drinkin' with a skeleton!"

It was indeed sometime later when Jess actually joined him in the saloon. He had visited the Telegraph Office without result, then the General Stores to purchase a selection of new clothes. Returning to the hotel, he bathed, taking a grim pleasure in scalding water and vigorous scrubbing to cleanse a little what could not be healed. Then he changed his clothes and went out to the nearest café, where he forced himself to consume some bread and soup. He knew Mose was right – he simply could not go on without eating, but even such a simple meal nearly choked him and his starved stomach at first threatened to throw the lot right back up.

Drinking on top of this did not seem like the best decision, but he felt he had no option and went across the street to join Mose in the saloon.

The first sip of whisky just opened a pit into which he wanted to fall and drink himself to blessed oblivion. If only he could blind himself and drown his feelings! But he would not deal in realms of 'if only' – the only thing he acknowledged with stark understanding was the absolute reality of his situation. He held the glass firmly down to the table and ignored the temptation, as he stonewalled Mose's curiosity.

The old man had greeted him in total surprise. "Hey, Jess! Ain't never, ever, seen you wearin' a red shirt before!"

It was partly to disguise the blood where the bath had set his back bleeding again, but also because he wanted to be sufficiently conspicuous for anyone following him to trail him easily. He had left the relay station quietly enough, but it was obvious Bradley did not trust him and the agent would be stupid to assume Jess would necessarily comply with the orders given him. After all, that was what the beating had been intended to reinforce. And Jess would be stupid to imagine the hostility of the newcomers would finish when he quitted the ranch. Whatever was going in, nothing could be assumed except that there was deceit and danger all along the way.

There was no reason which would persuade Jess to explain all this to Mose, though. Whatever his loyalties and support for the Sherman family, there was no point in pulling the old man into the treacherous and devious web-tangle Jess found himself caught in.

"There's a time for everythin', Mose. New start, new clothes."

"So, where are y' headin'?"

"I already told y' - Texas. Where else?" The reply was forbidding.

"Takin' the stage again?" Mose was clearly puzzled because he was not riding Traveller. Of all the things he knew about Jess Harper, his affinity to and partnership with this particular mount was undisputed. _What on earth had he done with the horse, if he wasn't riding it?_ Mose could not imagine Jess going far without the mount who was an integral part of him, still less that he would take any job which involved riding, without his beloved horse. And if he was after a job that didn't involve riding … Mose's heart sank as he remembered all he had heard about Jess's history before he arrived at the relay station. He guessed that, bereft of Slim's strong, simple integrity, it would be easy for Jess to slip back into old ways - or worse! But he let none of this show and instead quipped pointedly: "Just don't y' think of walkin'! Y' ain't gonna get far on y' feet in them boots."

"Train."

"That's a good choice y're makin'," the old man told him. "Ain't nothin' the same now on the stage runs out o' Cheyenne. Everythin's changin'."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, take the relay stations. When y' drivin' the routes regular, like I done all these years, y' get to know and work with the folks all along the lines. Y' git to be friends." Mose paused, suddenly stricken by the memory of one single friend. Jess's expression had not altered, but the old man hastened to carry on: "Most o' them stations've bin just the same for years, but there's three or four recently, just sold out or left for some reason."

Jess shrugged, unwilling to even start on this topic. "It happens."

"No, it don't, Jess!" The old man was surprisingly vehement. "Not like this. Places change hands, yes, but usually it's folks like the Shermans - family concerns, makin' a livin', takin' care of folks, raisin' kids to follow in their footsteps. Folks who got a pride in their work an' the company. Folks who'll put themselves out an' give somethin' extra. Not the hard kind of scoundrels we're getting' runnin' things now. Just look like they're in it 'cos someone's payin' them! Ain't got no respect for the crew and precious little for the passengers neither. Darn stage company'll find out soon enough they ain't good for business!"

Jess shrugged again, because nothing was further from his mind than the running of relay stations. Indeed, that part of his mind was locked and barred and bolted against all recollection, until there might be a time when he could bear to remember again. But he had liked Mose in the time when he was capable of feeling anything and this seemed a harmless topic to divert the old man from more painful ones. It was only later that his mind brought up and examined the facts he was learning. Now he simply asked: "How many?"

"Maybe as many as a dozen, from what I heard. All along the main routes. All stations like yours – just beyond the town."

"It ain't mine!" Jess's voice was so bitter it made Mose regret that he had got carried away by his concern for the changing situation on the stage-line.

"Now, Jess –"

"Now I goin'!" He stood up and pulled on his hat. Then he held out his hand. "Thanks for the drink. Goodbye, Mose!"

The old man shook his hand and shook his own head at the same time. _Danged if he knew what was going on!_ He watched Jess stride away into the gathering dusk and found his vision getting blurry. _Old fool!_ he told himself. It was a moment or two before he noticed the almost untouched glass of whisky on the other side of the table.

Jess collected his bag and left the hotel by the back entrance. He had, however, paid for the room overnight and signed the register in his own name. He headed back by some side routes to the train station, but on the way stopped at the Telegraph Office again. This time there was a reply. He read it through carefully and sent another message in response.

He caught the overnight train to Denver, paid for a compartment to himself and once again made a complete change of clothing. This time he discarded the gaudy red shirt that had identified him so clearly in Cheyenne and put on a plain working brown shirt and pants which distinguished him from no-one. He stowed his faithful black hat in his bag and unwrapped the new, brown one he had bought; this he proceeded to beat up until it looked as if he had been wearing it for years. Then, rolling carefully onto his side on the bunk to avoid more damage to his back, he deliberately exerted all his will power to shut down his thoughts and his feelings for a second time so that he could sleep out the journey out to Denver. Right now, he could not, however much he wanted to, afford to allow himself to think about Andy.


	6. Chapter 6

' _Act well your part,_

 _there all the honour lies_.'

Alexander Pope

 **CALLING IN OBLIGATIONS**

 **6**

 _Exile_

 _The first light of dawn found Andy still leaning against the window pane. He was cold beyond trembling, his body rigid with stiffness, and yet he seemed to feel nothing. As if a door had been slammed, locked, barred and bolted – a door separating his heart, his spirit, from the world in which his mind knew his body still existed. His senses told him that he was sick with hunger, yet the thought of food revolted him, especially the rich fare from last night which lay behind him, untouched, on the table. He knew he wanted plain warm bread and fresh milk, but he could remember neither the taste nor the smell. His inner vision showed him a homely scrubbed table and someone's hands kneading dough. Jess's hands. It always seemed so strange to Andy that anyone whose hands were trained to kill with a deadly-fast gun could also be an expert at bread-making. Life and death in the same hands. But he could no longer think about such a question - the memory just deepened the ice around his heart. He only knew the simple, trustworthy things were gone for ever and their place taken by a cold alien world. The walls of the luxurious suite in which he stood were impassable and the palatial accommodation concealed a prison. It was a world in which nothing was dependable and appearances were deliberately designed to deceive._

The Grand Palace Hotel, Denver, was definitely a deception, in name and construction, a pretentious façade concealing mediocrity. It was in fact anything but grand and was hidden away in a side street not far from the railway station. Around noon, a red-headed man entered the vestibule. There was nothing in particular to distinguish him from any other lone traveller: his clothes were plain and dusty, his face calm and approachable, but the clerk at the desk had a sudden disconcerting sense of déjà vu.

While he was picking out a vacant room and finding the key, the stranger took a quick look at the current guests by turning the register round. Having noted a certain room number, he took the key he was given and made his way upstairs. He did not go to his own room. Instead he climbed to the second floor. The room whose number he had ascertained so surreptitiously was at the back of the building and had, he noticed from the corridor, access to a veranda above an obscure and little frequented alley. He scratched at the door, using a particular signal.

"What's the price?" came the question from inside.

"Cut one of us, we all bleed!" he responded.

He heard the sound to the key turning, then the door opened and he was face to face with his cousin. Callum Harper's first instinct was to fling his arms round Jess and hold on to him tight, but he didn't. Almost immediately he had registered the icy, forbidding expression, the darkened eyes and the cold fury and pain literally radiating from him. It was no more than Cal had expected, given what he had found out, as well as what he had instinctively known.

They stared at each other, frozen to immobility by the enormity of the contrast between this and the other times they had met. Cal said softly again "We all bleed."

The familiar response seemed to release something or at least provide an anchor in a world gone mad. Jess drew in a harsh breath: "Cal, I'm sorry - the dreaming –"

"It's ok." Cal put a hand on his shoulder and felt the muscle, taut as a stretched rope, move slightly, then become still in a way that was more frightening than any violence of action or emotion. Now was not the time to say _Jess, sharing your dreams is like a knife in the guts!_

Cal thought of the times before when they had been linked by this strange power of communication, the overwhelming need that had conveyed itself so vividly in past dreams. It was a link perhaps forged when he had been the only refuge of Jess's troubled childhood and almost the last living person who had known the family who had been torn away from him. Jess had been barely thirteen, but already tough enough to shoulder the burden of grief and revenge, as well as to make it on his own in a hostile world. That didn't mean he did not need family and often Cal had been so much more than a cousin. Always, in extremity, Jess's emotions could and did call across the intervening space to trouble Cal's sleep. Usually he knew instinctively what the need was, but now, this time, there had only been a terrifying sense of emptiness, a desolation he could see for real before him in Jess's eyes.

He responded with the reckless loyalty which was the mark of the Harper clan: "Whatever you need. You called us. We're here."

"I never doubted you would be. And that Vin'll be –"

"Madder 'n hell with you, as usual? No, not this time," Cal reassured him, with a reminiscent grin. His partner had not infrequently asked why Jess could not just send a telegram instead of giving Cal nightmares.

"Where is he?"

"Checking out some of the things you asked about. He'll be here presently."

Jess heaved a sigh of evident relief. Cal saw him deliberately relax physically as he moved to the bed and sat down. But there was no relaxation of the mind and the iron-hard determination Cal could still sense in the aftermath of this latest dream-sharing. There was nothing he could or would do to change that; he simply asked, with his characteristic blend of common sense and compassion, "Jess, when did you last eat?"

"Yesterday, I think."

"If you're goin' to do this, you've got to be fit for it!"

"Do what?"

"Whatever you've got in mind, because I don't doubt you've got a plan. You can talk about it when Vin gets here. Right now, I'm gettin' you something to eat and drink!"

 **# # # # #**

Some time later the hotel clerk looked up in surprise and saw a tall man, who seemed to have materialised from nowhere, standing in front of him. He was plainly dressed in black, his long hair caught back and clubbed to his neck; he wore no hat and carried two saddlebags over his shoulder. He enquired for one of the guests and, receiving the room number, made his way silently upstairs.

The newcomer did not, however, go to the room whose number he had been given. He was adept at reading registers upside down. Instead he gave the same signal at the same door and made the same response: "Cut one of us, we all bleed!"

When the door opened, Stewart Vincent St John Warwick was struck again, as he always was, by the uncanny resemblance between these two cousins, both in their lean, wiry physique and in the carved planes of their faces. Sitting at opposite sides of the table, they were like the two sides of the same coin – Cal, red-headed, calm and emanating a warm friendliness, Jess, dark, uncommunicative, and, Vin recognised, at this moment in the ice-cold fury stage of one of his rages. He sighed inwardly, wondering where this was all going to end. He could see Cal had been encouraging Jess to eat, even seemed to have managed to get about a pint of milk down him, which was a major miracle. He could also see, from where he was standing, the tell-tale stains darkening the back of Jess's shirt heavily in at least three places.

He strode across the room and said, "That doesn't mean _you_ have to go on bleeding! Get your shirt off, Jess, and let me have a look."

"I'm fine!"

"Which means you're actually in need of serious attention! Now, are you going to let me do something about it, or do I have to knock you out first?"

Things hung in the balance for a moment. Cal said persuasively, once again, "You've got to be fit to do it." He and Vin exchanged rueful glances; years of dealing with Jess warned them they could have a fight no-one needed on their hands.

"Don't waste your strength defying me!" Vin was used to command and to being obeyed by men he had had under his command. "You know I can make you."

Not many people could actually say that to Jess Harper, unless they had first taken the precaution of threatening someone he cared about, because pretty much nothing else would work. Vin, however, had had the unenviable task of dealing with an insubordinate and hot-headed sixteen year-old, drafted to his patrol because no-one else had had any success in disciplining the boy. Admittedly he had also had the advantage of having Cal as his second-in-command. But he was more than capable himself of channelling and providing an outlet for Jess's wilder tendencies in a patrol which had earned a fearsome reputation as ruthless lightning-raiders and fighters.

Now he stood towering over the younger man until Jess gave in and pulled the offending shirt off over his head. Vin looked down and his lips tightened in disgust and anger. "Quite an expert job!" He could see from the marks where the maximum pain had been inflicted with relatively little obvious damage.

"They knew what they were doin'. Except the one who got carried away with the belt buckle." It was clear that this was the source of the jagged cuts still bleeding on his shoulder and ribs where the friction of the shirt had prevented them from scabbing.

Vin made no comment, just rummaged in the saddle-bags he had brought in with him until he found iodine and strapping. He didn't bother to say the treatment was going to hurt – it was nothing compared with the original beating. When he'd finished, he took the clean shirt which Cal had found in Jess's bag and handed it to him. "Better keep it on in public for a bit, if you don't want to be identified."

"That's the general idea," Jess affirmed. He sat down again at the table and motioned the other two to join him. He told them bluntly: "I need to call on the Ranulfhjar."

The familiar nick-name took the other two right back to the night when their patrol had returned in threes and fours like a hunting wolf pack, battered, weary, but exultant, to collapse around the fire in the shelter of a ruined barn. Exultant because, against all the odds, it had been a highly successful raid. Not only would they have enough to eat that night, but there were plentiful supplies to ship back to the main lines of the embattled and starving Confederate army. How they had laughed at their luck in wresting this success from the jaws of the enemy! But, in reality, it was not luck but the success of a finely honed and highly disciplined group of men, who trusted each other implicitly and who each knew their place in the team and would willingly die for any member of it. Never one for empty compliments, Vin had been moved to praise them that night and laughingly said they needed a grand name for such a troop because they were "an army of plundering wolf raiders!" This appealed to their imagination, but someone had objected that it was a bit of a mouthful for every day. So Vin had dredged back into the extensive reading he had once had time for and came up with 'Ranulfhjar', an Old Norse name with the same meaning. Somehow it was so outlandish it had stuck with them and so did the men who belonged to it, supporting each other whatever the consequences whenever there was need.

Cal whistled as Jess invoked the old bonds. "Is it so bad?"

"I don't know yet, but I aim to find out. And when I do, I may need back-up. It depends partly on what you've been able to discover."

"Tell us what's happened so far."

Jess narrated the events of the past week concisely and gave them his reactions: "The first thing wrong is the way they handled Andy. No-one who knows his family history could treat him like that!" Cal and Vin saw the light of vengeance flash bright and brief from his eyes. "And there's no way anyone who understands anything about the Shermans could possibly underestimate the importance of Jonesy. Andy's been cut off from everyone who knows him. I have to find him and make sure he's safe and happy. And if he isn't –" He stopped abruptly, his teeth clenched against the spasm in his throat. Then, with an effort, he continued: "The second is that they tried to scare me off - why bother? They had every right to sack me. And if they were goin' to do either of those two things, why bribe me as well?" He reached into the breast pocket of his discarded shirt and laid down the torn bills, which had survived his several changes of clothing.

"Not much of a bribe," Cal commented.

"I tore them. And I've got a use for them!" A wolf ready to kill could not look more menacing. "Now, what can you tell me about who I'm up against?"

Cal glanced at Vin and said, "Your call."

Vin took a moment to draw together mentally the information that he had accumulated from his investigations, undertaken as a result of the messages from Jess. When he had reviewed his findings, he reported succinctly: "Nathaniel Sherman – rich, successful, well established in St Louis – reputation for ruthlessness - might have been involved in blockade running during the war, but no-one really seems to know where his money comes from – has a number of employees who you wouldn't want to encounter in a narrow alley on a dark night, but no known convictions among them, he's careful – gives lavish hospitality to the rich and influential, plus he runs a very private poker school for selected guests – unmarried, his niece, Catherine Gordon-Sherman, supervises the household for him."

Jess's reaction to the woman's name was unmistakable, but he just said: "What about Rueben Bradley?"

"One of those employees –"

"Yeah – I've got reason to know that!" Jess snarled, hitching his shoulder muscles irritably. "I need a weakness."

"Opium. He smokes at one of the down-town dens. Not addicted, but careless. You want me to get Li Chen on to it – he's got relatives in every town?"

Jess nodded. "It's a good entry for me, but make sure Li's kin know who I am – damned if I need any of that stuff in me right now."

"Well, you look the part," Cal told him. In truth, Jess's pale, gaunt and seriously unshaven face could easily give such an impression.

Vin completed his report on Bradley with the comment: "And of course, he likes hurting people, but only if he can get away with it."

"Or get someone else to do it for him." Jess stared down at the table for a moment and then snapped "He's the only one who'll be there who's likely to recognise me from personally meetin' me. I've got to be sure he won't. And that no-one else has a chance of guessin', especially if they come across one of those old Wanted posters!"

"Any ideas about what you can do?" Cal asked.

"Yeah – and that's where you come in. You're a pretty good match for me."

This was perfectly true, Vin reflected: although Cal was some five years older than Jess, there was hardly a hair's breadth to choose between them physically.

"I want you to go ahead to St Louis and find the best tailor in town," Jess told Cal. "Get measured for the right clothes for Mr Nathaniel Sherman's social circle and get them made up as far as you can. They'll have to fit them when I arrive. Remind them I pay for the best and for very fast service!" Jess waited until Cal nodded before continuing, "And buy me a horse, will y'? I need something fancy to catch people's eye in town. Not a horse that's ever seen the wrong end of a cow!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money, which he pushed across the table to Cal.

"I suppose you want a good horse, all the same?" Cal risked a gentle tease. "Not like you to waste money on ornamental horse-flesh."

"Just as long as it ain't never belonged to a saddle tramp." Jess moved swiftly on to the next point. "What's the name of the best hotel?"

"The Metropolitan."

"Book in and I'll meet you there. Don't use the name Harper." When Cal nodded again, Jess added: "An' grow a bread, will y'? Don't want anyone noticin' the family jaw-line!" This settled, he turned to Vin. "Who've you got near enough to St Louis?"

Vin thought for a moment, running through the location of the remnant of his crack cavalry patrol. Once enemies of the Union, they had subsequently been recruited by it for precisely this kind of unofficial surveillance and investigation. "Tod lives there, got a gun-business, which is useful. Greg and Raoul are both within easy distance. Gabriel could make it in a day or so. No-one else we can call up very quickly."

"Seven of us. That'll do."

"We'll be there when you need us," Vin assured him. "Anything else I can do now?"

"I'm not sure you'll like it."

"Like what?"

"Adoptin' me!" Jess had the satisfaction of seeing Vin's jaw dropped, although he was quick to recover and demand "Why?"

Jess jerked a thumb at Cal and replied, "Well, you're pretty well a member of our family and you know what we're like! I need a real respectable background and a name that people will recognise."

"True enough. But I can't invent relatives, so who did you have in mind?"

"A certain gentleman who, I did hear, is in jail in England."

Vin laughed and said "The black sheep of the family - right choice! It's about time he made reparation for the damage he's done to our reputation. Can't think of anyone more likely to get involved with whatever Nathaniel Sherman is up to. And they've certainly never met."

"And what do you think he's up to, Jess?" Cal asked.

"I don't know," Jess admitted. "What's so special about a relay station?" He stopped abruptly as the memories he had carefully isolated and ignored of exactly what had made it so special came flooding back.

"There's something botherin' you, though," Cal told him shrewdly. "What is it?" This sounded a ridiculous question, given all that had happened, but Cal knew his cousin almost as well as he knew himself and could read the subtleties of his thoughts.

"It may be nothin' much …" Jess replied, but nonetheless explained what Mose had told him about the changing ownership and staffing of relay stations on the main stage routes.

"I'll look into it," Vin said at once. "We've got Ranulfhjar all along the lines."

"Good. I admit it's naggin' at me, but I can't make any sense of it. Maybe you can." Jess stood up and began to shrug into his coat.

"Where are you goin'?" Cal queried.

"To the theatre! I've an obligation to call in." He grabbed his hat and slid silently out of the balcony door. As it sighed closed behind him, they heard his footsteps whisper faintly into the alleyway below and it seemed as if a journey of great distance already separated them.

 _Exile_

 _Andy stood on the balcony beyond the window, his hands clenched on the rail, as his eyes stared unseeing down the length of the mansion's garden. He had never seen a formal garden before but it made no impression on him now, he was only aware that it was empty and no matter how much he yelled, no-one would hear him. They would not have given him even this small access to fresh air if there had been any chance of his contacting the outside world. It was as if the freedom and openness of his previous life had been obliterated. He had emerged from the first shock and dislocation of being dragged away to this place, to find himself frozen – it started from deep in the centre of him, a coldness which chilled his body, curbed his tongue and froze his heart. After the long, lonely and silent journey, he had not been reunited with his brother. When he demanded to see Slim's body, Nathaniel Sherman had told him it was too late: "He's at the undertakers now, Andrew. We can't open the coffin." I wish Jess was here, Andy thought, he'd rip that undertakers apart to find Slim! He gripped the iron railing of the balcony and stared sightlessly into the garden_

Cal and Vin looked blankly at the balcony door and then at each other. Vin spoke from long knowledge of the way Jess reacted to crises: "His mind is compartmentalising. Isolating situations. Shutting down everything except the immediate action."

Cal drew a deep breath. His expression had changed from the reassuring optimism he had maintained throughout the conversation. Now he looked both deeply troubled and guilty. "Maybe we shouldn't have encouraged him?"

"To stay there?" Vin recalled their visit to the Sherman relay station to explain the importance of the Ranulfhjar's new responsibilities and Jess's struggle to decide where his loyalty lay. He also had in mind the strange and powerful mental tie between the two cousins – their sharing of the consciousness of the hunting wolf-pack. He regarded Cal thoughtfully. "This is the first dream since we did, isn't it?"

"Yeah – and you have no idea what it's like!"

"But it proves one thing, doesn't it? That's where he belongs."

"Belonged!" Cal corrected him. The words began to tumble out of him. "It ain't the Ranulfhjar dream, Vin, not the wolf pack, not the hunting. It's just …" his voice trailed off, then he whispered, "like something's been amputated and he's bleedin' to death." He was shaking with the power of the experience. "You can't imagine!"

"Yes, I can." Vin reached out and put a comforting arm round his shoulders. "I can imagine if it were you or me – how the other one would feel. God give it never comes like this, but it will come, sometime – some long time off, I hope."

Cal managed a shaky grin. "Amen to that!"

"Good. Now, you'd better get going and catch your train." He gave Cal a gentle shove in the direction of the door. "And, Cal …?"

"What?"

"Don't worry about Jess. I'll be near him, whatever happens. I gave my word."

"We both did, long ago. And there's no sense in worryin' till it happens - family motto!"

"All the same, you could put up a prayer for me while you're travelling!" Vin sounded amused. "There's something I didn't tell him about this impersonation – and I don't think he's going to like it!"

* * *

Notes:

In the _St John Warwick_ surname, 'St John' is pronounced in the English way: 'sin-jon'.

 _Ranulfhjar_ (pronounced 'ran–ulf –yar'), is an Old Norse word composed of the same elements Vin attributes to his patrol: "rán" meaning "plunder" plus "úlfr" which is "wolf" and "harjar", the word for "warriors".

Cal and Vin first appear in an as-yet unpublished story, _Wolf's Clothing_ , the plot of which is briefly referred to in this chapter. Although it is probably difficult to believe, I did not chose 'Vin' because of any connection with any version of _The Magnificent Seven,_ either on film or TV - it was a complete co-incidence. I didn't find out about the name in this connection until _Wolf's Clothing_ was finished and the character relationships were established in a way that would make it hard to change the name.


	7. Chapter 7

' _Act well your part,_

 _there all the honour lies_.'

Alexander Pope

 **CALLING IN OBLIGATIONS**

 **7**

 _Exile_

 _He ought to be able to pray! Andy had been well brought up and, although faith in his life had been conventional, it had been sound - an everyday goodwill and love which permeated the family and their home. Through the hardest of times as well as when life was easy, the adults of his world sustained and comforted him and each other. Now, when there was most need of the kindness and common sense that had surrounded him all his life, there was an empty space. It's Jonesy! Andy realised, feeling as if he had just been dropped over the edge of a cliff. I want Jonesy! He had never really been aware before of how much Jonesy was a part of him and of Slim. Into his mind suddenly flashed the memory of the time Slim had come back from the war for good so unexpectedly – he remembered Jonesy sitting Slim firmly down at the table, first thing, before their mother caught a glimpse of her eldest son - Jonesy skilfully cleaning and strapping up the festering cut along Slim's cheekbone, which was to leave him with a permanent scar – Jonesy making sure that the battered young man was as presentable as he could be to greet his family once again. This new family which Andy was supposed to belong to now had no such wise and patient member. They'd told him, grudgingly it seemed, that Jonesy would be allowed to attend the funeral. When it was over, Andy was convinced he would never see Jonesy again. He had not dared even asked about Jess. It was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth._

In a dressing room in Denver Theatre, an argument was raging over ways and means of changing one man into another. The object of this altercation sat patiently in a chair in front of the big mirror, waiting until professional opinions came to a conclusion. Two thespians regarded him with folded arms and quizzical expressions.

"If he's going to disappear, we've got to deal with the eyes – they're the first thing you notice about him."

"Darkening's no problem." The speaker picked up a small bottle from the dressing table and shook it meaningfully. "I say glasses too."

"They draw attention to the eyes! And they'd make him look too old."

"Alters the character well, though."

"I thought there was a woman involved - so would you want to alter his character? Besides, it's a bad idea if he's going to be fighting."

"He's going into polite society, idiot!"

"Have you ever known him not get into a fight, sooner or later?"

The two actresses both looked severely down at the chair, whose occupant had stirred slightly before giving a non-committal shrug.

"All right, no glasses. But we do need to draw attention away from those eyes."

"Grow the beard, maybe?"

"Same reason applies as far as the woman is concerned."

"True, I never did fancy a beard myself. What about a moustache?"

"Something thin and sinister looking."

"Agreed. And what about this?" Rosanna seized a handful of thick, wavy hair and gave it an experimental tug. Her victim stifled a yelp of surprise.

"No earthly use dying it. It's too dark."

"Anyway, that would just look artificial. We're aiming for the natural man."

"Change the styling then." There followed several minutes of experimentation, which he endured stoically. Looking in the mirror had already revealed a gaunt, unkempt stranger whom he hardly recognised as himself.

"Slick it back – showing the hair-line changes the shape of his face entirely."

"So it does. Good job you haven't had it cut for a while," Jen informed her victim. "So keep it long – it doesn't look a bit like you."

"But we'll have to do something about the sideburns with that style." There was another, rather more protesting movement, followed by a resigned nod.

"Don't worry, I'm just going to trim the shape. You'll be surprised."

Having settled the details to their satisfaction, Rosanna and Jen proceeded to follow their own plan, despite protests of 'I hate stuff in my eyes!" and "I'm quite capable of shavin' myself!" They succeeded in transforming him to such an extent that a quite different face, a dark-eyed and rather sinister countenance, showed in his new reflection.

Attention to detail is the key to good, theatrical impersonation and Jess's helpers were nothing if not thorough.

"Hands!"

"You can't gate-crash polite society without shaking hands all the time – let me look!"

"Hmm – not bad. Good job you wear gloves a lot. Tidy nails too."

"Pass the pumice and I'll get rid of those few callouses."

"Now – clothes!"

This really did raise an objection and Rosanna and Jen found themselves summarily ejected into the corridor while he changed yet again. There they were joined by Vin, who had completed his part of the plan and tracked Jess down to the dressing room. When eventually they were readmitted even the actresses, accustomed as they were to how costume changes character, felt themselves in the presence of a stranger, a wolf as it were in a townsman's clothing. Vin too hardly recognised the man with whom he had been conversing closely only a short while ago. The change was uncanny and he felt an unexpected shiver go up his spine.

"You could almost be my cousin, not Cal's!" he commented in amazement, but with a sense of foreboding too.

"I'm an inch or so short, aren't I?"

"No – he's not much taller than you. But he doesn't have a Texan accent, so how are you going to lose yours?"

"Ain't aimin' to talk much," Jess told him and added, totally unexpectedly and in almost faultless mimicry of Vin's own slightly English vocabulary and pronunciation: "I shall endeavour to avoid unnecessary light conversation."

Vin gave a reminiscent chuckle: "I'd forgotten you could do that! But there is something else - one thing about him which is really distinctive." Vin opened his hand and held out a small, glittering object. "You're lucky I found this last time I had the misfortune to be sharing a room with him."

Jess drew in a deep breath. "I am?" and then between his teeth, "Which ear?"

"Left. Come on, ladies – I'll hold him down while you do the necessary!"

 _Exile_

 _Andy refused to talk. Or at least, as far as his innate good manners allowed, he avoided conversation with his uncle, the woman Catherine or any of those sent to supervise him. He was afraid that if he once began to say what was in his heart, he would never stop and there would be an argument of terrible proportions, which he would be destined to lose. A perceptiveness forced on him by his isolation and desolation warned him it was better to hold his peace and keep his thoughts to himself. To hesitate and appear compliant, maybe even a little stupid, until he found a battle which he could win. His uncle, he had realised at once, was accustomed to winning and there was little chance of a mere boy thwarting him, when grown men came away from conversations with him looking white and shaken. Nathaniel Sherman might appear cultured and sophisticated, but his words had all the force of a gun-shot or a knife-blow._

In a first class compartment on the train to St Louis, Jess and Vin were working on polite conversation and consolidating Jess's mastery of sounding like a sophisticated member of St John Warwick dynasty. This he did with surprising facility, having been accustomed all his life to listening and remembering, rather than writing and reading. The only noticeable thing was a very slight hesitation before he actually spoke. When Vin remarked on this, the reply was: "I'm just thinking about how it would be if you were speaking." As it manifestly worked and enabled him to sound totally different, there seemed no reason to change this; in any case, it was an attractive trait, adding another distinction to the character he was playing.

Jess had consigned his gun and beloved black hat into Vin's safe-keeping and presently remarked that he felt naked without them and not particularly happy about going unarmed, even in polite society. In answer, Vin produced the belt he had purchased in Denver. "He's a knife man, first and foremost."

"Damn! I'll need to practise, if he's good. It's a long time since I relied on one." Jess ran an experimental hand over the various knives which slotted into the belt. He sent up a brief prayer of thankfulness that he had once, for a short period, been part of a travelling show and as a consequence had become an expert knife-thrower.

"He's good. But he does carry a couple of derringers as well." Vin handed over the ones he had bought and Jess stowed them away, one in his boot and the other in the inner pocket of his coat. He clipped on the knife belt and pulled out one of the knives. "Now, let's see if I can cut up you and the upholstery some!"

The actual damage was, in fact, minimal, but it took most of the long journey before Jess was satisfied he had the speed and skill to best anyone he was likely to encounter.

"You've been living a long way from polite society - it's not as dangerous as you think," Vin told him in attempted reassurance, but Jess merely remarked that he had just sampled some of what polite society could do when it put its mind to it. "And I intend to return the compliment!"

The inhuman coldness in his voice gave Vin another inward shudder. He had so much experience of the way Jess had lived and grown. He was profoundly thankful the deep-rooted integrity in his young friend had found the time and the place to flourish in the home he had been given at the Sherman Relay Station. But Vin was uneasily aware that the man whose character Jess was about to assume could so easily have been the one Jess himself developed into. There was often such a fine line between good and evil and circumstances could push you either way. He prayed that this situation, the pain, the rage and the desolation, would not drag Jess from one to the other. But there was nothing he could do to prevent this – he could only offer his unstinting aid and the back-up of his influence and expertise. He hoped it would go some way to substituting for the rock-solid support and stability Slim had always given Jess, and for the utter reliability which had earned him that nick-name, 'Hard Rock'.

Finally the train began to slow in its approach to the city and they gathered up their belongings. Vin felt in his pocket and produced a slim, silver cigar-case, which he handed to Jess. "Here – smoke these just so you don't forget who's backing you up."

Jess nodded in appreciation. They'd fought often enough over who was buying the cigars – and occasionally for possession of the last one. "Thanks. I'll think how much you're missing them!"

"You can save me one or two!" Vin told him. "It's all right for us to be seen together, but not too much. I'm the one who's pulled him out of some of his scrapes, much to the disapproval of the rest of the family, but even then, you wouldn't call us friendly. I take it you and Cal are going to avoid each other?"

"Once we've sorted out the tailoring," Jess agreed. "While we're all at the Metropolitan, we can use hand-signals when we need to, but if it's more complicated, I'll leave a message with Li Chen's kin." He paused, reviewing the plan. "I don't aim to remain at the Metropolitan, though." A humourless smile crossed his lips briefly, before he continued, "I'm going to get invited to stay somewhere much more socially acceptable."

"And you're confident you can pull it off?"

"Well, you were surprised and you knew I was going to disappear. Now I need to try it out on someone who knows me intimately and who has no idea that this has happened. I'm calling in a final obligation!"

* * *

Notes:

There is a little more about Jess's acquaintance with knife-throwing in _Wish you were there._

If you want to see how altering the hair-line changes the face, there are plenty of examples in theatrical make-up or have a look at Timothy Dalton in _License to Kill_ or, of course, just try it in the mirror!


	8. Chapter 8

' _Act well your part,_

 _there all the honour lies_.'

Alexander Pope

 **CALLING IN OBLIGATIONS**

 **8**

 _Exile_

 _Andy paced restlessly up and down the big, second floor living room assigned to him. He had lived an active, outdoor life for all of his nearly thirteen years and being confined to this apartment, however spacious, was gradually driving him insane. He had always longed for the freedom to see what lay beyond the horizon, but he had never thought he would find out this way. The walls and the furnishings seemed to press in on him, stifling him with their luxurious opulence. He knew now how Jess must often have felt when the mere security of the relay station became a chain dragging on his spirit. But he was not going to think about Jess – about the absence - about the silence – he could not! Then there leapt into his mind what the woman had said, Catherine, who claimed she would have been his sister and that she was there to comfort him and share his grief. Perched on the edge of his bed, she had come to wish him goodnight when she remarked: "It's such a shame Matthew had no one close to him, just living with an old man and some hired ranch hand, no fit companion for a man like him. No wonder he valued you so much!" Her beautiful face smiled down at him, but the smile was a practised one and there was no warmth there to solace Andy's coldness. She had dismissed Jess as if he had never mattered to Slim, never meant anything in the family of the relay station. And Andy knew, without a shadow of a doubt, Slim would never have talked about Jess like that. What he was not mature enough to realise was that a man in love does not necessarily spend time praising his best friend to the woman of his choice. Bereft as he was of Jess's support, Andy had rejected outright this ill-phrased appeal to his emotions. He had turned his back, burrowed into the bed and pulled the covers over his head. But there was no escape from loneliness, even in sleep._

Colonel Frobisher was accustomed, when on furlough at his St Louis residence, to retire to bed early. It was with some surprise, therefore, that he heard, at around 10 o'clock one night, the sound of his door-knocker being applied actively to his front door. Presently his butler appeared, bearing a calling card on a silver salver. Frobisher frowned. The man knew well enough that he did not accept callers without appointment and he certainly did not make appointments at this time of night!

"Excuse me, Colonel," the man explained, "I thought you ought to see this, given the message, sir." His butler had served for a long time as his orderly and knew much about his master which others did not.

The Colonel took the card. On one side was simply printed the name " _Caine St John Warwick_ " and, below this, a coat of arms on the left and on the right an irregular red circle, like a drop of blood. On the back was handwritten, " _With regard to Cold Stone Canyon, at the request of JH_."

Man and master looked at each other. The Colonel said "He gave his word and I trusted him."

"Not a man to break his word, sir," the butler responded. "Least, not what I saw of him."

"No-one else knows about this," the Colonel flicked the card impatiently between his fingers. "Where else would this man, Warwick, get his information?"

"It does say at his request, sir." When there was no response, he added, "Shall I tell Warwick to come back tomorrow with a proper appointment?"

"No," the Colonel said after more consideration. "Better have him in now and find out what the devil he wants!" He paced rapidly back and forth across his study, a process which he had always found calmed his nerves and cleared his thinking. He had a feeling that he was going to need clear nerves for this encounter.

In a short while the door of the study opened and he heard his man saying, "This way, sir." If he was using "sir", he must accord the visitor a certain social standing. On the other hand, the last professional news Frobisher had heard of associated with the name "St John Warwick" was the break-up and imprisonment, in the closing stages of the war, of one of the Confederate army's most notorious and deadly raiding patrols. After that, there had been rumours, but no definite information about what those men and their leader might or might not be doing in civilian life.

"Mr St John Warwick, sir."

The visitor walked into the room with the taut economy and grace of a hunting wolf. Though he was impeccably dressed in formal clothes – white silk shirt, tailored pants and cut-way tail coat with a discreet grey stripe – and although he was, ostensibly, unarmed, there was something about him which made the Colonel wish very much that he had a trusty sabre to hand. The man had not yet removed the soft, grey hat he was wearing and his face was in shadow, although the light caught a silver and red gleam just below the brim.

"Good evening, sir. I apologise for disturbing you at this hour. It was good of you to agree to admit me." Somehow this perfectly polite greeting, delivered in low, courteous tones, seemed to imply that, if he had not been admitted, serious damage to property and person would have resulted.

Colonel Frobisher looked down at the card in his hand, debating whether to raise the question of the message or allow the visitor to approach it in his own fashion. When he looked up again, the stranger had politely removed his hat. Frobisher found himself looking at one of the hardest and coldest faces he had ever seen. The lean planes of the bone might have been carved out of ice, the lips frozen in a thin, menacing line, the wide, black eyes staring with death in their gaze. The only colour or movement about him was the glitter of the tiny earring, disturbed by removal of his hat. And from all this, it was clear that, whatever else he wanted, this man had not come to negotiate over any knowledge he might have.

"We seem to have an acquaintance in common," the Colonel said drily.

"Possibly more than one," Warwick agreed, his voice still low and unthreatening.

"And you appear to be in possession of certain information?"

"I am in possession of a lot of information, Colonel."

"Spare me the preliminaries and get to the point!" Frobisher snapped out. "I dealt with an honourable man to whom I have a deep obligation. What have you to do with this?"

"I'm glad you think him honourable, sir – obviously unlike your opinion of myself. That is most satisfactory!"

Frobisher stared at him in amazement. His own integrity made it hard for him to believe any man would deliberately accept a dishonourable reputation, although he knew full well such men existed. They did not usually, however, turn up in his study at this time of night.

The stranger was standing utterly still, watching him intently with a total focus that involved every fibre of his body: the wolf was poised to spring, but preferred to face down his enemy by sheer will-power combined with something which Frobisher correctly identified as a certain reckless impudence. A feeling of familiarity swept over him. He'd seen someone react like this before in a highly dangerous and unpredictable situation. He took a risk.

"The initials on this card are JH. Only he knows what happened to the Appaloosa stallion."

Warwick nodded appreciatively and told him. When he had finished, he added, "I'm reliably informed, however, that the man you mentioned has returned to Texas."

"Have it your own way!" The dazed Colonel grasped his hand and shook it vigorously, still hardly able to believe his eyes. "I'm not sure what the aim of this is?"

"The aim is to make sure even those who know me very well will not easily recognise me." Warwick paused before demanding abruptly, "I need to test that now."

Frobisher tensed and rapped out "You always did have the devil's own nerve!"

"Sometimes it's necessary. It is necessary now and I give you my word that I will explain why as soon as I have more information myself."

"Very well." The Colonel pulled the bell-cord to summon the butler and, when he arrived, ordered; "Tell Miss Eleanor that she is required in the study, please." They waited in silence until the lady in question joined them.

 **# # # # #**

Coming into the study, Eleanor Frobisher was surprised to find her father had company. He introduced the man with him by name but gave no other explanation. Instead he questioned his daughter on certain historical records which she had been helping him collate. She assumed this must be the reason for the nocturnal visit, but the very hour made her uneasy. So did the presence of this man, who, after bowing a greeting, ran an almost insolent look over her before turning away to stand silently, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, his gaze on the embers of the fire. Without doing or saying anything, he nonetheless conveyed a sense of tightly leashed, hungry power that was most disturbing. After a while, he moved, perhaps finding the fire too hot, and stood behind the desk, his back almost turned to their continuing conversation.

"Papa, can I speak with you in private a moment?"

"Will you excuse us, Mr Warwick?" The Colonel guided his daughter out of the room. In the small room across the corridor, he looked down at her and asked: "What's troubling you?"

"You remember on the last southern posting of yours? You had a Confederate scout marking trail for you – to Cold Stone Canyon."

"Don't pretend you don't remember his name, Eleanor" He was fully aware that his daughter had formed a rather more intimate connection which had certainly passed the exchange of names.

"Jess Harper." She tossed her head defiantly. "Pa, your visitor, Mr. Warwick – they're so different, but there's something – not when he's facing you, he doesn't like anything like Jess then - but when he turns his back …" She had spent more than enough time looking at the back of him, the way his hair grew into his neck, the set of his broad shoulders, the line of muscle under his shirt which tightened and relaxed as he rode in front of them.

"And what do you think?"

"Well, if I hadn't seen his face, I'd say it was the same man," she responded definitely.

"Indeed. Let us hope that most other people do not have your powers of observation, my dear," her father told her drily. "And what would you do now, to protect his identity?" He knew what she had done in the past, responding to the extremity into which the ill-fated expedition had led them.

"I'll keep my mouth shut," Eleanor said without hesitation, "and I'll do what he wants me to."

When they re-entered the room, the subject of their conversation was standing looking out of the window. As they approached, he turned his head to look over his shoulder at them and Eleanor was torn by the memory of how he had looked at her in just such a way, not often, but enough.

"Jess! It is you, but I'd never have guessed unless – "

"Unless you happened to know me rather well." Even his voice was different. The husky tones now had virtually no trace of his Texan drawl, just a definite Southern accent. He might have been any one of the many opportunistic men flocking into the city.

"What do you want?" father and daughter asked simultaneously.

"Two things." He turned to Eleanor and said bluntly: "I need your help in making the acquaintance of a neighbour of yours, Miss Catherine Sherman-Gordon."

Eleanor stiffened. "Is it personal?"

His lips tightened sardonically. "Not in the way you mean. At least, I hope not!"

"She's very beautiful."

"So I gather. You'll have to risk it. I wouldn't ask if there were any other way to get to her."

They looked at each other for a long moment, then Eleanor nodded. "All right, I'll help, I trust you."

"Oh, don't do that. Caine Warwick is thoroughly unreliable!"

"And the second thing?" enquired the Colonel, deeming this conversation had gone far enough.

"I need to gate-crash an event to which I believe you have been invited."

"What event?"

"A funeral."


	9. Chapter 9

' _People like you to be something -_

 _preferably what they are_.'

John Steinbeck

 **DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART**

 **9**

A small, chill wind blew across the graveyard. The sky was overcast and the air thick with moisture, although it was not actually raining. The black scar of the grave stood out vividly in the surrounding grass. Silent figures grouped themselves at intervals around it, as if reflecting their status and relationship to the man who was being buried.

Andy stood in the forefront of the chief mourners, with Jonesy close beside him. He had refused, point-blank, to come to the funeral unless Jonesy was allowed to take care of him. There was no way his uncle could force him publically to do otherwise, so he had no option but to comply with Andy's demands. Nonetheless, contact had been carefully supervised and, so far, they had had no chance for private conversation.

Now words were pouring from the black-cloaked priest who was conducting the service, but they meant nothing to Andy. The pain of loss was so great he could feel nothing, believe nothing – certainly not that it was Slim in the coffin being lowered into the ground by strangers. Where was Jess? He would never let anyone else bury Slim – Andy knew, with the intuitive understanding of one who loved them both, how strong was the bond which was being torn apart here. _Please come!_ In his inner mind he could see the star-faced bay galloping impetuously into the crowd, the familiar figure leaping from the saddle, lean and graceful and more real in the dust and sweat of his working clothes than all these people in their funeral finery. Andy shut his eyes tight so no-one would see his tears.

When he opened them again, he thought, for a split second, his prayers had been answered. Across from his uncle's party, and rather set back from the grave itself, a small group of neighbours were gathered on a little hillock. Andy was only vaguely aware of them except for one figure standing at the back of the group with a young lady leaning on his arm - a man immaculately dressed in mourning black, his face shadowed by his hat, whose stance had a poised power and inherent danger that belied his conventional behaviour. He was the same height as Jess, with the same sense of tightly controlled energy about him, but - in looks – a total stranger. Andy dragged his gaze away, the mistake piercing him with even more grief because his longing was unfulfilled.

At last the interminable words came to an end and he was led forward, with his uncle and the woman, Catherine, to cast the first handfuls of earth on the coffin. The rattle of soil on wood seemed to drive steel into his heart, as if he had suddenly been enabled to feel at last - to feel a deadly and inescapable knife-thrust. Then it was over and they were moving back towards the road and the carriage which would carry him to what he must now call his home. Jonesy was still sticking close beside him, but for how much longer? Andy knew he would be whisked upstairs, away from all contact with anyone, as soon as he set foot inside that house again.

Jonesy must have known this too, because he caught hold of Andy's arm, halting his progress through the graveyard and the attendant mourners. Nathaniel Sherman turned, sensing some hitch in his organisation, and found himself confronted with an old man and a boy who seemed, impossibly, in some way to threaten him.

"With your permission, Mr Sherman," Jonesy said with impeccable but determined courtesy, "I'll say my farewells to Andy here." Unspoken was the knowledge that he would in no way be welcome at the wake.

Nathaniel inclined his head in consent, but stayed close to his nephew, not willing to risk any unhelpful outside influence. Jonesy took Andy by the shoulders and spoke gently: "You know you are cared for, boy – your ma and pa entrusted both of you to me from the day you were born. I've seen your brother grow to be a fine man. I see you can do the same. You have just one thing to remember – it's a promise and a challenge: always finish what you set out to do. It's all that matters now." He drew Andy close and gave him a long hug, then released him and limped away through the crowd of strangers.

Andy lifted his eyes to follow Jonesy and saw, on the edge of the crowd, the unknown man, watching them intently. _Why did Jonesy say that?_ he thought bitterly. _Why had he reminded him of Jess's promise now, when Andy needed him so badly and he was not there!_ _Why were there only strangers?_

 **# # # # #**

On the porch of his residence, Nathaniel Sherman was receiving his guests, friends and neighbours, with appropriate decorum. A little behind him, Catherine Sherman-Gordon stood, exquisitely dressed to reflect her tragic bereavement, a widow before she had ever been a wife. She was a strikingly beautiful young woman, with a near-perfect figure and smooth magnolia skin set off by the burnished chestnut of her hair. The assembly for the funeral was not large. Nathaniel's nephew had made himself very popular during the short weeks he had been with them, but he was not well known in St Louis and there were fewer family and friends than there were neighbours and acquaintances. Nathaniel and Catherine were gracious but formal in their acceptance of condolences. The line of hat-doffing, hand-shaking people caused them both a wry inner amusement.

At one point, however, there was a small check in the proceedings. Their neighbour, Colonel Frobisher and his family were just approaching them when the man who was escorting Frobisher's eldest daughter drew to one side and said quietly, "Since I have not been introduced to the family, I will leave you now, Miss Eleanor. Please send to me if you require escorting home."

Eleanor Frobisher started in surprise and laid her hand firmly on the man's arm, preventing him from moving away, as was obviously his intention. "Papa?" she appealed to her father, who merely looked embarrassed. So Eleanor turned to her host and smiled winningly at him. "Mr Sherman, I am sure you would not wish to deprive me of my escort?"

Nathaniel smiled back at her. He wanted to keep on good terms with the Colonel – one never knew when this would come in handy. "Miss Eleanor, your needs and wishes are, of course, an entry into any social function." The words fell just short of sarcasm. No offence could be taken, but he was suddenly aware of a formidable piercing black frown from the man in question. Clearly this one was not one to be taken lightly.

Colonel Frobisher drew in his breath impatiently and said, "Mr Sherman, may I present Cain St John Warwick, an … acquaintance … of my family." The hesitation implied without a doubt that the Colonel was far from happy at this association of his daughter's.

"Your family name is, of course, well-known." Nathaniel extended his hand to the stranger and found it taken in a vice-like and inescapable grip.

A faint smile touched Warwick's lips, as if he was amused by the pain he was inflicting on the other man and the way social convention prevented his victim from doing anything about it. "My family," he responded frankly, "would probably prefer that I was not associated with the name." Nathaniel was impressed by the man's imperturbable public acceptance of a less than favourable reputation; he began to think hard.

Giving a small, formal bow, the stranger passed on to meet Catherine, who was already exchanging a feminine embrace with Eleanor Frobisher. Eleanor was saying to her: "Catherine, I am so sorry for your loss. He was a fine man. You must be devastated." She was watching the other woman carefully, but Catherine continued to look serious and a little withdrawn. Eleanor went on: "You must come and visit us when you feel able. We are very quiet at the moment, so there would be no offence against propriety."

Catherine looked over Eleanor's shoulder at her escort, who had so neatly been included in this reception. "Thank you, my dear. I am touched by your feelings at this time. But you have a guest." As she spoke, she took in aura of danger about the man – from the taut strength of his body to the hard planes of his face and the thin line of his lips, which the moustache accented so well. No wonder the good Colonel was wary! Especially as there was an undeniable attraction that most women would find hard to resist.

Eleanor smiled without humour. "Mr Warwick is not resident at our house." She turned slightly, inviting him to join in their conversation.

"I am grateful to be included in your gathering, as I appreciate of the hospitality of Miss Frobisher's family." Warwick removed his hat smoothly and bent gracefully over Catherine's extended hand, although his lips did not quite touch it. As he raised his head once more, wide black eyes ran a gaze over her which was almost, but not quite, impertinent in its thoroughness. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he did not really believe his next words: "My condolences, Miss Sherman-Gordon, on the tragic end to your engagement."

Catherine inclined her head, lowered her eyes modestly as became a bereaved young woman, and murmured, "Thank you, Mr Warwick." As Eleanor and her escort passed on into the reception room, the look that followed them combined an aroused interest with the self-focused determination of one accustomed to have her own way in everything

Her aims apparently concurred with her uncle's inclinations, for, when the guests had all been greeted, he drew close to her and said softly, "That man, Caine Warwick – I want you to exert your charms, my dear. I would like him to accept our hospitality in the very near future." This, however, was easier said than done, for she found that Eleanor's escort stayed close at her side, attentively seeing to her every whim. He made no attempt to engage in conversation with anyone else and remained almost entirely silent until the departure of the Frobisher party. It was most frustrating.

 **# # # # #**

Consequently, a number of incidents followed in rapid succession over the next few days.

Miss Sherman-Gordon was only too delighted to accept an invitation to accompany Miss Frobisher on a quiet drive into the country. It would not be appropriate for her to be seen driving about town, but the fresh air would be healthy and beneficial to her mood of mourning. When the carriage arrived to collect her, however, she found Eleanor Frobisher seated in solitary splendour and the equipage being driven by an elderly and highly conventional coachman. Their progress was sedate in the extreme, although Catherine could not believe that, with such a suitor to hand, Eleanor did not hope to meet him under cover of this drive.

In this her instincts were entirely right, but she was still astounded to suddenly find Warwick riding alongside the carriage. His approach had been so silent and unobtrusive even the coachman, who should have been keeping a look-out, did not appear to have noticed him. Where he had come from was a mystery, but there he was, astride a fine black Arabian-cross stallion which he rode with an almost absent minded skill, as the horse was clearly itching to stretch its legs in a flat-out gallop. Apart from a conventional greeting to them both, he remained as silent as he had the previous day. Only at the end of the drive, when he had dismounted to assist Catherine in her descent from the carriage, did he say quietly "It is unwise to drive unescorted, Miss Sherman-Gordon. Has your uncle no spare man who could accompany you?"

Catherine noted again the slightest hesitation before he spoke, which gave the impression that he had tailored his comments very personally to his listener. She looked at him and smiled. "Miss Frobisher had no escort either."

"Miss Eleanor can call on me." Although his face was entirely serious, she was sure he was laughing up his sleeve at the disapproval this would undoubtedly cause Eleanor's father.

"And may I do the same?"

"If you wish." He looked her up and down as he had at the reception, then transferred his gaze to the woman in the carriage. The hesitation was more pronounced this time before he added: "Provided, of course, I have no prior commitments."

Catherine went into the house sending up fervent prayers that Eleanor Frobisher would succumb to a sudden bout of influenza or be mysteriously called away to nurse an ageing relative on the other side of the continent. She was not at all sure Caine Warwick would ever be lacking in prior commitments and she was perfectly certain that, in any case, this was a man who would do exactly what he pleased when it pleased him. For all her beauty, Catherine was not sure he yet included her in those pleasures. She was annoyed at having to fall back on her uncle's hospitality in order to develop this intriguing acquaintance into something more intimate.

 **# # # # #**

Nathaniel Sherman had more means of getting information than just relying on his niece and had already put one of his men to trail Warwick. The stranger, however, appeared to be living a quiet and blameless existence between the Metropolitan and the Frobisher residence, which was only a short way down the broad avenue from Nathaniel's own mansion. He rode out each morning and frequently returned escorting the eldest Frobisher daughter from her drives. He dined at various houses to which the Frobisher connection or his own family gave him entrance. He played an occasional game of cards at the hotel – but never for money. Altogether a totally innocent existence, yet, as the tracker responsible for following him commented after making his report: "There's something about him - I'd sooner step on a rattler than get across that man."

Nathaniel's further investigations into the antecedents of Caine Warwick served to confirm this assessment: his past contained a number of incidents whose violence or illegality suggested his present life-style was an assumed one, presumably to ingratiate himself with the good Colonel Frobisher.

It was Rueben Bradley who brought in the first confirmation of this, as a result of his own pleasure-seeking. He entered the familiar atmosphere of the opium den, intent only on greeting those he knew and obtaining the pipe he had come for. The room was shadowy, the gaming-tables and couches shrouded in a dim and smoky veil. Settling down to smoke, his ears were soothed by the faint click of the ivory cards which mingled with the almost silent flutter of their paper counterparts. He watched idly as the betting mounted on one of the tables and noted the covert interest of the other occupants of the room. A game of Hanging Horse was in progress and the interest was occasioned by the fact that one of the players was not Chinese.

 _More fool him_! Bradley thought, wondering whether the owners were just softening this one up before stupefying and robbing him. It wouldn't be the first time such a trick had been played in dens like this – let the victim win easily at first, encourage him to smoke too much of his winnings, and then rob him blind and dump him in an alleyway somewhere.

After a while, though, it became evident that this was not a set-up but a serious gambling session. The apparent victim was no victim at all, but capable of playing the game at an expert level and, judging by the tallies mounting beside him, of holding his own and winning. He was also capable of knowing when to stop, as presently he bade a courteous farewell to his fellow players, cashed in his tallies and, casually rolling up the bills and stowing them in an inner pocket, strolled quietly towards the door.

 _Damn!_ Bradley thought, pulling himself hastily out of the creeping drowsiness he had been enjoying. He knew this man and he knew full well the reaction of Nathaniel Sherman if he did not follow up this contact. He paid hastily and went out into the night.

Bradley knew the back alleys down-town well enough, but trailing dangerous strangers was a job he usually delegated. There was, however, no chance of avoiding it now. Nor was there any way of avoiding the knife which he shortly found touching his neck as he edged cautiously round a particularly dark bend in the alley.

"I dislike being followed!" The cold voice had all the venom and threat of that rattlesnake to which its owner had already been compared.

"I'm Rueben Bradley – we met at Mr Sherman's place - the day of the funeral!" Bradley gasped, hoping the knife was not actually going to slice straight into his vocal chords as they moved in his throat.

"We met." The statement was flat and contemptuous. "I see no reason to extend the acquaintance." Bradley could no longer feel the knife, but he knew it was there in the darkness.

"No offence intended, Mr Warwick!" He gave the assurance hastily, knowing how little chance he had if the blade was thrust at him and, judging by what they had discovered of his reputation, how little provocation Warwick would need to use it. "I was hoping to invite you for a drink. I know Mr Sherman is interested in meeting you again."

"Mr Sherman knows where I'm staying." The knife-blade flicked in an impatient gesture, catching a glimmer of light as it did so. _Get on your way!_ it clearly said - a sentiment which its owner echoed: "After you, Mr Bradley."

The walk through the remainder of the dark alley was the longest Bradley had ever taken. It was some time before he realised that Caine Warwick had simply vanished silently into the shadows.

 **# # # # #**

An invitation to dine at the Sherman residence arrived at the Metropolitan Hotel first thing the following morning. It was accepted promptly, but, although entirely courteous, Caine Warwick proved almost as uncommunicative at the dinner table as he was in the drawing room.

Over the next few days, Miss Catherine Sherman-Gordon was accompanied on her daily drive by an escort mounted on a black stallion. As befitted her mourning situation, conversation was strictly limited. Late in the evening on these days, Nathaniel Sherman's private poker game acquired a new player. Caine Warwick played a skilful but almost entirely silent hand, speaking only when he had to bid or call.

At the end of one of these sessions, Nathaniel turned to his latest recruit with an invitation: "I am sure life at the Metropolitan is unbelievably dull for a young man. May I offer you the hospitality of this house for a while?"

Caine Warwick regarded him thoughtfully for a moment with that cold, black gaze, then inclined his head silently in acceptance.

* * *

Notes:

The game, _Hanging Horse,_ is a precursor of modern _Mah Jong._ I'd love to have Jess playing this favourite game of mine, but as far as I know, it was not played in the modern form until much later in the century. The same game turns up in one incident in _Wish you were there._

The title of Part 3, _Dead Man's Sweetheart,_ comes from A. E Housman's haunting poem, _Is my team ploughing?_


	10. Chapter 10

' _People like you to be something -_

 _preferably what they are_.'

John Steinbeck

 **DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART**

 **10**

It was amazing how swiftly Warwick's silent presence became an integral part of the household. Within twenty four hours, no-one except Reuben Bradley thought anything of the lean, dark shadow who accompanied Nathaniel Sherman or Catherine virtually everywhere – and Bradley was mainly thinking of his own situation vis-a-vis both uncle and niece. It was probably this uncertainty which made him try to assert the privileges of his entrenched position in the household. He was particularly unwise to have chosen to do this, since rumour had already reached them of an altercation outside the Frobisher mansion in which Warwick had cut up another man who, he considered, had been making a nuisance of himself to the lady of the household. The red-headed victim had been drinking heavily around town, to the accompaniment of the story of how he got the three parallel cuts on his left cheek.

Bradley was, however, always confident of his own ability to control and direct any violence he was involved in. Besides, he was relaxed and off-guard in the familiar surroundings of the Sherman household and the poker game.

The game had lasted well into the small hours and the air was hazy with whisky and smoke. The players were, by mutual agreement, enjoying some minutes of apparent relaxation, although actually none of them were dropping their guard or losing the predatory tension which was fuelled by their desire to win. This made it doubly unfortunate when Bradley leant across the table and picked up Warwick's silver cigar-case, from which the owner had just extracted and lit one of the small, black cigars which did not smell quite like anyone else's. The temperature of the room plummeted abruptly – or seemed to. If that rattlesnake had been dropped into the middle of the table, it could not have caused a stronger desire in most of the players to retreat as far as the walls would allow them.

Not so Bradley, who said with a smirk, "You could hand them round."

"I could. I don't."

Bradley was undeterred by the freezing tones and biting edge with which the reply was delivered. "Oh come on, now, Caine," - he laid his hand, palm up, on the table, expecting the requested cigar to be placed in it - "You're new here. Learn manners from the company you're in!"

There was a swift blur of movement, a soft but sickening thud and a scream from Bradley, whose hand was now skewered to the table by a slim, razor-sharp knife.

"No-one calls me Caine unless they've earned it!" Warwick watched the man writhe for a few moments before jerking his knife free, He wiped it thoughtfully on an immaculate handkerchief and returned it to his belt. "It's Mr Warwick to you."

He stood up, his dark eyes narrowed into a challenge which none of the company felt like taking up. Then he turned to his host and said politely, "I appear to have damaged your furniture, Mr Sherman." He pushed his winnings across the table. "I trust this will be sufficient for a replacement? Good evening, gentlemen." He accorded them a slight bow, picked up his cigar-case and strolled silently out of the room.

It was a measure of Warwick's status that Bradley's protests about his behaviour got short shrift from his employer. It was precisely the kind of situation which amused Nathaniel. He had no objection to someone else taking down any of his more dangerous employees, provided it did not permanently impair their usefulness. "You asked for it. What did you expect him to do?" was his only comment. The following day, however, he ventured to raise the subject with the perpetrator, as they were lounging on the veranda at the back of the mansion, enjoying coffee and brandy after a substantial mid-day meal.

"Thank you for your contribution to the household maintenance last night, Warwick. I fear you overpaid me somewhat."

The young man appeared to think about this before he replied: "There is always a price to pay for freedom of action."

"As Rueben has discovered!" A cruel smile of enjoyment hovered briefly over the older man's lips and he saw it reflected in Caine Warwick's eyes. After savouring the moment, Nathaniel continued, "Nevertheless, I have a certain fondness for retaining the members of my household intact. I'd be grateful if you would bear this in mind, should you feel moved to further actions of a similar kind."

"In that case, it was careless of you to lose a nephew."

Nathaniel shrugged. "Matthew Sherman was a visitor – a very temporary one."

Warwick leaned forward and helped himself to another brandy. "Is that meant to be a warning?"

"Hardly. I doubt very much if you would follow in his footsteps – or perhaps I should say, in his hoof-prints."

This caused Caine Warwick to raise his eyebrows. He seemed to be thinking through the implications and then laughed and said "You're not telling me he was in league with the devil?"

"Oh, quite the contrary." Nathaniel found this mightily amusing. "He is, or rather was, a most upright and respectable young man, as you heard at the funeral."

"Upright, respectable - and stupid, if he ended up in a coffin!"

"None of which qualities are yours, Mr Warwick." Nathaniel was watching the responses of his companion closely.

"Nevertheless, you'd better tell me how he met his end – I'll take extra care to avoid it!" Warwick seemed amused, but Nathaniel sensed a challenge and a desire in the words. This man wanted to know how far he was trusted.

"The explanation is simple. He took the Devil's Leap."

"The devil he did!" Warwick was still amused. "And what exactly does this leap involve?"

"A challenge between young men. There is a place on the river, a steep drop above a waterfall. Young men hereabouts are accustomed to ride down the cliff and jump the river – proving their manhood – at least, they think is does."

Warwick looked both weary and contemptuous. "As if that would prove anything! Presumably he did not succeed?"

"His horse foundered on the far bank. He fell into the river and he was drowned."

"He was engaged to your niece. You made no attempt to stop him?"

"My dear Warwick, young men do as they please! I really cannot be my brother's, or in this case my nephew's, keeper!"

"And I suppose you shot the horse for failing too?"

"No, we sold it. It was well-bred and highly trained."

"Why waste money shooting it," Warwick agreed.

 **# # # # #**

At dawn the next day, had there been anyone to observe, a lone horseman could have been seen approaching the precipitous drop above the river, known as the Devil's Leap. The black stallion moved towards the brink with a restive power which a swift gallop from the borders of town had done nothing to dissipate. Now, though, obedient to the iron will and skilful horsemanship of its rider, the horse paced deliberately to the very edge and halted, tossing his head with a deep snort. It might have been the stallion's comment on the potential course down the almost vertical drop and over the narrow but deep channel through which the river foamed towards the fall. Easy to see a rider and even a horse would have virtually no chance if they fell into the unforgiving water.

Cain Warwick surveyed the scene of the tragedy carefully. He did not snort, but he might just as well have done. There were indications that one or two idiots had actually ridden down the cliff-like incline, but not nearly enough to suggest it was a local pastime, however daring the youth of the town were. At the bottom, there was a shelf on the edge of the river, sufficient for a horse to halt and be turned away from jumping the water – unless it was urged on by extreme recklessness. Warwick lit a cigar and smoked it thoughtfully as he considered the scene of the tragedy and what it implied. He was willing to bet a considerable amount that, although Nathaniel Sherman's household would contain witnesses, he would never succeed in contacting anyone else who had been with Matthew Sherman when he met his tragic accident.

Late the same day, a brief note passed through the hands of Li Chen's kin in the opium house. It said only: _Alamo sold. Find him and buy him back!_ From then on, Caine Warwick began to look for a suitable opportunity to put into action the second part of his plan.

Before this, however, he was party to an interesting discussion between his host and Bradley over the situation in Laramie. Nathaniel had not attempted to conceal from his new guest that he was engaged in business which was intended, in the end, to give him a chain of key locations across the country, using the staging companies' infrastructure. Quite what he intended to do with these bases he had not so far revealed, but he was seriously considering taking the man into his confidence. His estimate of Caine Warwick was that the man was a skilful and deadly antagonist as well as one who, both by reputation and by his actions so far, was ruthless and unscrupulous in pursuit of his own ends. The irony of this assessment would not strike him until some time later.

That day there was company dining with them at the mid-day meal and afterwards they were all sitting in the drawing room as Catherine dispensed coffee to the company. If her eyes strayed from time to time in the direction of the armchair occupied by Warwick, she was perfectly content for him to notice it. If he did, he gave no indication of the fact. The company were discussing a forthcoming horse race and various people were trying to persuade Warwick he should enter the black stallion and enliven the competition, which was mainly local.

Warwick shook his head. "I have nothing to prove. Least of all to the local population."

Just then the butler approached Nathaniel, bearing a letter on a silver tray. Nathaniel took it, read it through and turned a forbidding gaze on Bradley, who was holding forth about the excitements of the race. "I'll speak to you about this later." It was not until the guests had departed and there was no one left but those who were under Nathaniel's control that he turned once more on his employee: "I thought you said you had got rid of that ranch-hand, Harper?"

Bradley grinned. "We made sure he'd never want to hear the name Sherman again!"

"Never mind what he wanted to hear – if he was dead, he couldn't hear anyway!"

"Dead?" Bradley was beginning to look distinctly sick in the realisation that he and his boss were at cross-purposes. "Who said anything about him being dead?"

"I did, you fool! It's not enough to get rid of the other one – Harper has to go as well. But this report says your men lost track of him in Denver."

"He was heading for Texas, like a dog with his tail between his legs," Bradley protested.

Nathaniel grated his teeth. "I wanted a dead dog, not a missing one! Obviously my orders were not clear enough. You were supposed to kill Harper and make sure his death was public enough for there to be no argument about it. He's a gunman. It ought to have been simple to stage!"

Bradley's voice trembled. "He's deadly fast – everyone says so. But we sent him off on his travels without any ammunition."

"He's ammunition enough to destroy our plans on his own, even without the gun. Now get out there and find him! And make sure this time someone sufficiently competent kills him."

"He's disappeared completely!" Bradley had taken the trouble to make sure he knew this. "We'll try, Mr Sherman, but –"

Nathaniel stepped up close to him and said in low but deadly tones: "You'll do more than try. You'll succeed. Otherwise I may just have to ask Mr Warwick here to use some of his persuasion on those who fail."

Bradley shot Warwick a look which combined intense dislike and fear in equal proportions. He nodded his acquiescence to Nathaniel and left the room abruptly. The door closed behind him with what would have been a bang, had he dared.

Nathaniel allowed himself a mirthless chuckle. Then the low voice of Caine Warwick addressed him: "You take a risk in assuming my willingness to reinforce your orders."

"My dear Warwick, forgive me. It was just so tempting after the other night!"

Warwick raised the glass of brandy he held and drank a silent toast to his host. "Just as long as you remember that I make the decisions about anything I'm involved in."

"But of course. I promise I won't involve you in anything which is not to your advantage."

"I never do anything that is not guaranteed to create an advantage."

"Then you must decide whether it is to your advantage to accompany me this evening," Nathaniel smiled and, as the young man raised an enquiring eyebrow, he went on, "I'm paying a visit to the bank.

 **# # # # #**

"It seems bank employees in St Louis keep late hours!" Warwick remarked sardonically as they made their way down a side-alley leading to the back-yard of the bank. A solitary light was glimmering fitfully in one window, suggesting a single candle was its source.

This proved to be the fact when Nathaniel tapped quietly on the back door and they were admitted by a worried looking man in the stiff, formal garb of a senior bank clerk. He was somewhat reassured to see Mr Sherman was accompanied by his beautiful niece, as well as several of the men who worked for him. This was definitely an error.

"I'm sure you know what I want, Mr Saunders," Nathaniel began without greeting as he and his party swept into the back office. "A man in your position doesn't get paid a lot, but work with me and I think I can guarantee a substantial rise in income." He seated himself at the desk without asking and folded his arms with an air of patience, for the moment taking no further part in the proceedings.

Catherine smiled at Saunders. "Think of all the pretty things you would be able to give your wife, if only the bank weren't so meagre in paying you!" She herself exemplified the use of pretty things to enhance her appearance.

Saunders shook his head in nervous denial. "Milly knows exactly what I earn. She'd want to know where the money came from."

Catherine gave a silvery laugh. "Poor Mr Saunders! Are we to conclude that you are hen-pecked?"

A look of rectitude replaced the rather foolish expression on the man's face. "Total confidence between man and wife is the foundation of marriage, Miss Catherine!" Then, hastily, as he remembered her mourning status: "I am only too sorry you have not had the chance to find that out."

"Matthew and I told each other everything." Catherine smiled until she added, with a sudden hardening of tone, "Just as I'd like you to tell me everything, Mr Saunders."

"W-w-what kind of thing?" Saunders looked like a silly chicken about to be slaughtered by a raiding fox.

"Like the schedules for deliveries of cash to the branches this bank supplies."

"S-s-s-schedules?" Saunders had gone white and was stuttering so much he could hardly speak.

"And the exact method of delivery," she continued, "Oh, and the number of armed guards. That should do for our first attempt at total confidence."

"I can't! I daren't!" He was shaking violently.

"I think you can," Catherine assured him and her uncle added from his observer's seat, "Otherwise certain gambling debts will have to be called in."

"I'll be sacked!" the man bleated in panic. "If I'm sacked, I'll never be able to pay them off!"

"What a shame. Well, if you can't be swayed by reason, I'll have to leave you to other forms of persuasion. Gentlemen …" Catherine turned with a slight bow to her uncle's men and accorded him a small curtsey. "If you need me further, I shall be in the drawing room, awaiting the announcement of dinner. Do try not to be late, it does so annoy the cook."

The clerk proved to be made of sterner stuff than his foolish behaviour and ill-advised responses suggested. Crude methods of torture did not shake his resolve or wring any information from him. After a while of attempting these tactics, Nathaniel Sherman held up his hand and activity ceased, leaving the man gasping and writhing in the chair to which he was tied.

"Mr Warwick, would you oblige us?"

The dark man, who had been lounging disinterestedly in a corner, straightened up and moved towards the clerk as lightly and silently as a wolf stalking its prey. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand, a long thin blade, with a wicked curved point. He bent over the man, seized hold of his ear, twisted it hard and let the point of the blade jab into the soft lobe. Saunders screamed.

Warwick stood back and regarded him thoughtfully as blood from the ear poured down his neck and soaked his shirt. "I was beginning to think you did not mind being hurt, Mr Saunders. However, now we know you understand pain, I'd like to ask you a question."

Saunders appeared to gather his strength to resist any further attempts to extract information from him, but Warwick just said softly, "Do you have children, Mr Saunders?"

"Why, yes." Then the full implication of this question struck him. "No!" he screamed desperately. "No! You can't! You mustn't!"

"Really?" Warwick continued to look at him without any sign of emotion as his finger ran along the edge of the blade. He jerked his head in a silent signal to the man nearest the door. It opened and they could see a young boy of about ten struggling in the hands of another of Nathaniel's henchmen.

Warwick pushed the knife back into his belt and strolled through the door. He seized the boy by the hair with one hand, clamping the other across his mouth. "Not yet, little bird. Time enough for you to sing when I'm good and ready." He jerked his head again and the man in the yard went in to join his fellows.

Through the open door, Warwick looked back at Saunders, struggling futilely against his bonds. "Sometimes, Mr Saunders, our imagination is better at persuading us than mere brute force. It only takes a very little blade, you see, in the right place. Sometimes what you hear is more terrible than what you see."

With that he kicked the door shut and leaned against it, dragging the boy back with him. "Now, little bird, are you ready to sing?" The knife glimmered in the flickering candlelight from the window. Warwick bent very close and whispered in the boy's ear, "I'm not going to touch you with this, provided you can scream me the worst scream anyone has ever heard! Are you ready?"

In the office the piercing cry of a child in agony reverberated through the listeners and even the toughest of them wondered what Warwick had done to elicit such terror. Saunders slumped in a dead faint, but, once they had brought him round, there was no further trouble about sharing confidential information. Nathaniel was well pleased with his new recruit as they made their way back to the mansion, the waiting woman and a welcome dinner.

It was not until the following day that another message was passed through Li Chen's kin. This one said: _Stamina and_ a _cting contributions of the Saunders family gratefully acknowledged._

* * *

Geographical note: apologies to St Louis for tinkering with the surroundings in the service of the narrative (unless I'm psychic and the Devil's Leap actually does exist!)


	11. Chapter 11

' _People don't change,_

 _they just have momentary steps_

 _outside of their true character.'_

Chad Kultgen

 **DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART**

 **11**

The fact that Nathaniel decided to have a serious talk with his employees on the evening of the bank visit was further occasion to Caine Warwick's advantage. Over the course of several nights he had gradually familiarised himself with the two wings and the central block of mansion. His own room was on the first floor, close to the accommodation in the central block of the family itself. The west wing also consisted of guest rooms on the first floor, while the east wing housed the domestic offices and the servants' quarters. On the second floor of the west wing, he discovered an enclosed suite, to which there appeared to be no access except a single door. Having no chance to observe this area during the day, he could not divine who was resident in the suite or its relationship to the rest of the house, but he could guess - and the guess made him clench his teeth in an effort to supress his anger. _Soon_ … he promised himself, _soon_ ... but there was nothing to be gained by acting too soon.

On this particular night, he had begun to explore the east wing. The first floor consisted of rooms occupied by the servants and some of Nathaniel's minor employees. The second floor appeared to be deserted, there was no light or sound from the rooms as far as he could ascertain, but his investigations were curtailed by a curious fact. One of Nathaniel's henchmen was located in the room next to the staircase - and he was not asleep. _Why guard a deserted corridor?_ Warwick stood a few steps down from the top of the staircase for a considerable time, lost in thought, before he turned on his heel and made his way, silent as a hunting wolf, back to the family area.

 **# # # # #**

Catherine Sherman-Gordon had entertained the house guests until they were ready to retire and gone to her own room shortly after her uncle had called the men into his study. Warwick had pointedly declined to join them and gone upstairs too. Catherine was restless, unable to settle, pacing up and down, her hands clenched in frustration. This would not do. She flung herself into an armchair by the fire and forced herself to be calm and clinical about why she was in this mood.

It was, of course, simply that she had never failed at least to entangle, if not to seduce, any man she set her sights on. Sooner or later, they would succumb to her company, her attention and her undoubted beauty. They were not all as easy to capture as Matthew had been, but that was part of the fun, especially as many of the men of her uncle's circle were mainly interested in power and money. Her some-time fiancé had been the exception and, at first what she mistakenly saw as his innocence and naivety had charmed and amused her.

Now she was being ignored by a man whose presence was the exact opposite of innocent or naïve. Catherine found the danger enthralling, but she could not work out what tactics she could use to break into the silent reserve which surrounded Caine Warwick. When he did actually break that silence, the very sound of his voice was enough to tempt any woman, let alone the dark menace in his eyes and the hard, feral grace of his physique. It was surely impossible that a man of his disposition and experience could fail to know when a woman was attracted to him, yet, despite the lure of her indisputable beauty, he appeared totally indifferent.

With some difficulty and a sigh of frustration, Catherine began to unlace her dress. She could not stand the fussing of a maid when she felt like this and she was, in any case, disinclined to go to bed, only to lie tossing and turning and regretting. She pulled on a silk wrapper over her petticoat and began to loose and brush out her hair, so it flowed in beautiful chestnut waves down to her waist. When the rhythm of brushing did not relax her, she decided what she needed was a stiff drink and some company, even if it was not the company she desired. It would not be the first time she had joined her uncle and his men at this time of night, although she did not make a habit of it.

Closing her bedroom door behind her, Catherine turned to her right and made her way along the main corridor towards the east wing stairs. No sense in advertising her unconventional behaviour to any of their guests by using the main staircase. It was very dark, with only a little moonlight filtering through the edge of the curtains, but Catherine knew the house so well she had no need of a lamp or candle. Neither, apparently, had someone else.

She turned the corner onto the stairs and walked straight into someone coming in the opposite direction. She was thrown completely off balance by the impact of the hard-muscled body into which she had crashed. For a dreadful moment she thought it was Matthew – he had the same feel, the same toughness that comes from a man spending his life outdoors in physical labour – but no, it could not possibly be! She was dizzy and breathless, almost about to faint, but strong hands gripped her shoulders and a husky voice said against her cheek, "I beg your pardon, Miss Catherine. Can you tell me where I am in this confounded house? I seem to have lost my way in the dark!"

She gasped, breathing in the scent of leather, cedar and cigar-smoke which lingered faintly on the clothes under her hands. Then she hastily summoned up her sophistication as best she could, she replied: "You are on the first floor, Mr Warwick, and on the stairs at the east end."

He gave a low chuckle. "I could have sworn I was going the other way. And you, Miss Catherine? I'm afraid I have interrupted you wherever you were going …" The words ' _at this time of night and dressed in such a fashion_ ' hung in the air, unspoken, but understood by them both.

"I – I had a headache. So much talk tonight. I thought that a little brandy might help."

"My own need entirely."

"There are always drinks in the library."

Before she could say anything else, he turned, his arm sliding round her waist, as he said: "Allow me to escort you. You may feel faint again." She was almost certain there was mockery in his tone, but she did not care.

When they reached their objective, there was a fire still burning in the room. Warwick let go his hold and pulled an armchair close for her. He stirred up the flames and tossed on another couple of logs, before finding the table of drinks and pouring two large brandies. Having handed her one, he settled into the opposite chair and stretched his legs towards the blaze. The firelight showed her nothing but a flickering silhouette and the occasional gleam, like a drop of blood, from the tiny silver and ruby earring in his left ear. His face was in shadow as he tossed off the brandy in a couple of swallows. Presently he reached into the pocket of his shirt and drew out a small silver cigar-case.

"Do you smoke as well as drink, Miss Catherine?" He selected a cigar, lit up and inhaled deeply.

"No, but I love the smell of cigars." She leaned forward, well aware that the firelight brought out all the beauty of the hair which cascaded around her shoulders.

He laughed, that low, mocking chuckle again, and leaned forward too. "You'd better hold this one then." He took her hand and guided it to the cigar between his lips. When her fingers had closed round it, he got to his feet in one fluid movement and picked up his empty glass. "I see I drink faster than you, which is no doubt appropriate to our respective stations in life." He refilled the glass, repossessed himself of the cigar and continued to smoke quietly.

"One's station in life is, of course, most important," Catherine felt she needed to keep up at least a veneer of sophistication and propriety. "I'm thankful that we Shermans have an assured place in the best society. But with your family connections, Mr Warwick, you can hardly be unaware of the importance of social status."

"I have a family name, Miss Catherine, to which my connections are extremely frayed. My dear relations have spent many years trying to cut me off entirely from it!" He sounded grimly amused by this. "And besides, I do not always enjoy the formality of using it."

"Names, of course, can be formal or informal. We still seem to be on a very formal footing for two people resident in the same house."

"My only concern is to respect the status of a grieving fiancée." His voice was soft and low, but the words had a hard edge to them. There was the very slightest of hesitations before he continued, "Your emotions will, no doubt, cause you headaches, like the one from which I hope you are now recovered?" He reached out and took away her empty glass. "I trust you will be able to reach your bedroom without further faintness? Sleep well, Miss Catherine."

She found herself rising to her feet as if she had been dismissed like a servant. As she turned in the doorway to look back, she could see only the gleam of the brandy glass and the red glow of the cigar to convince her that it was not a shadow or a ghost sitting there by the fire.

 **# # # # #**

He was sitting in exactly the same attitude the following night when Catherine let herself quietly into the fire-lit library. The only difference was a small table next to the chair she had occupied, on which reposed a generous glass of brandy.

"More headaches, Miss Sherman-Gordon?" The husky tones sent a shiver up her spine.

"I don't think you ever really believed in the headache, did you, Mr Warwick?"

"I believe whatever you choose to tell me." He raised his glass to her. "To do otherwise would hardly be the act of a gentleman."

She challenged him quickly: "I thought you said last night you didn't chose to behave like one?"

"I said that was what my family believed."

"And what am I to believe?"

As always, Catherine had the distinct feeling he was tailoring the words of his response to fit her precisely: "I'm sure you are quite capable of making up your own mind and trusting your own judgement where men are concerned." His tone was bordering on the insolent and even though she could not see his eyes, she felt them run over her thoroughly and speculatively once more.

"I fear that I did make something of a misjudgement in my engagement."

"Surely not?"

"My fiancé was a God-fearing, boring small rancher who would never amount to anything. All he cared about was working that wretched relay station."

"Clearly a mistake to value work above a woman of your quality."

"His lack of quality meant he would never really fit into our level of society. He had no idea of the importance of social status and he seemed to think – would you believe? - that everyone should be treated as an equal, for heaven's sake! He was only concerned with ranching and he had no idea of the possibilities for using his re -" She stopped abruptly and then added, with a spurt of viciousness, "He was just a common working man and he had vulgar, working hands!" Her eyes were on the hard, narrow fingers curled round the brandy glass. Caine Warwick, of course, had beautifully kept hands.

"A fortunate escape. We should drink to it." He lounged to his feet and reached out for her glass. "Unless, of course, you feel it would bring on another headache?" The fingers of one hand slid smoothly round her wrist, circling it like a manacle and no more easy to escape, while with the other he caught the glass which she had almost dropped.

The second brandy made Catherine feel more relaxed – if one could ever really relax in this man's company. She was more confident too that she was being successful in initiating a relationship with him, although, perversely, he chose to continue needling her about her engagement: "But, of course, you have a memory of your fiancé to cherish, I believe, in the form of his little brother?"

"My uncle's wishes make it necessary that he lives here."

"I'm sure he must find a woman's tender care most consoling."

"I see as little of him as I can!" It was the truth, for the boy had not responded to her assumed role as his comforter and in consequence had quickly made her hostile. This answer, she instantly realised, was lacking in feminine softness, so she added hastily: "He has adequate care and schooling – and he has the run of the second floor of the west wing. It is not necessary for me to be involved in his daily care. After all, I have not been brought up to mother orphaned children."

Warwick shifted in his chair so that he was looking, for the first time in these encounters, directly at her. "I wonder what you have been brought up to?" He leaned forward, studying her intently and said softly: "Apart, of course, from spreading a charming net of temptation in the path of every man you meet – and, no doubt, making yourself deservedly unpopular with any other female in the vicinity."

It was the point in the proceedings at which Catherine would have fully expected any other man to fall on his knees beside her and begin to talk of love. She received a considerable shock when this one reached out like lightning, caught her wrist again and, with one savage pull, brought her to her own knees beside him. The brandy glass flew from her hand and broke on the hearth, the sound of shattering glass forming a highly appropriate background as he bent and kissed her with a suppressed violence unlike anything she had experienced before. It felt more like a conflict than a conquest on her part, yet in a sense, she had all she desired and more.


	12. Chapter 12

' _People don't change,_

 _they just have momentary steps_

 _outside of their true character.'_

Chad Kultgen

 **DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART**

 **12**

Caine Warwick stretched sinuously, like a wolf waking and preparing to hunt. Then he hitched himself up into sitting position and retrieved his cigar case from the pocket of his shirt. As he lit up, Catherine weighed up the possibility of pleading that her room should not be suffused with an aroma of cigar smoke in the morning and decided, sensibly, she had no real justification for doing so. In any case, he would take absolutely no notice of her objections. He did, however, get up and stroll across to fling open the window. He snagged a nearby chair with one foot and dragged it closer, so that he could sit staring out into the moonlight.

"Tell me," he murmured presently, in tones of lazy curiosity, "how did a woman of your … sophisticated … tastes come to be marrying a God-fearing, boring small rancher?"

"It was an arranged marriage, of course" she told him. "After it became obvious Matthew would never sell that scrubby little patch of dirt, my uncle wanted to get control of the relay station some other way. It was essential to everything he planned and, in any case, even if he had been inclined to try somewhere else, there was no other station within a suitable distance of Laramie. He knew Matthew was obsessed with me, so marriage seemed the obvious route to make him do what we wanted. But it wasn't. It took me a little while to find out exactly how stubborn and independent he was."

"A man of principle, you mean?" The lazy tone had been replaced by something Catherine would like to have called jealousy, but which was, in truth, more like disgust, though she could not tell whom it was direct at.

"Principles? I find the unprincipled much more interesting and, of course, much more successful. So it is very convenient that his … demise" - she laughed as she said the word – "left us in charge of a minor who can't interfere, as well as freeing me from a life of domestic boredom in the back of beyond! Imagine _me_ , in a place without refinement or culture, a place where family connections and status have to play second fiddle to the strains of living hand to mouth. Matthew must have been mad to imagine that there was any way I would endure it! "

"You had better be careful what you say. He may come back and haunt you."

"I thought he had!"

"Indeed?"

"The night that I ran into you. In the dark, I didn't know who it was. You felt exactly like him."

"Exactly?"

"Well, he's a little taller, but his body is just as hard – hard as a rock. Not like a man who lives in the city."

"Hard ...as ... rock?" There was an indefinable note in Warwick's voice, which Catherine missed completely. He added, with some irony, "I've done my share of labour and worked with my hands – but only when I've had no other option!"

Catherine was more intent on her own feelings than his and continued, "But there's no chance of his getting out."

"There generally isn't, from your grave."

"Oh Caine! He's not –" She stopped abruptly, for she had already said nearly too much. She revised her confession, despite the almost overwhelming impulse to confide in him. "He's not in a position to affect my life."

"But you have to pretend to be his grief-stricken fiancé?"

"In public. Not in private."

"And I obviously count as private."

"Caine, you know you do!" In truth, though, she had never felt less sure of any man and knew that she was still somehow on the outside of an invisible barrier which cut him off from everything like a sheet of ice, thin but unbreakable as steel. A cold wind breathed over them both. But her shudder was a shudder of fear in the presence of something she could neither touch nor own. It was like trying to grasp an elusive, quicksilver shadow that slipped silently from her predatory hands.

She moved across the room and stood behind him, her arms circling him sensuously and her hair falling about them both like a cloak. Without speaking a word, she demanded understanding of her priorities, acceptance of the choices she had made. The cigar was soon extinguished. The twin but opposed flames of extreme selfishness and unshakeable loyalty burned on. Conflict as well as harmony can ignite passion.

 **# # # # #**

The house was still with the quietness of the small hours, when sleepers dream deeply and no-one stirs. Caine Warwick moved, as always, silently, without haste, like a shadow or a ghost and with as little feeling. As the moonlight bleached the colours from the world and left it cold, so he was icy, intent, ruthless and fine-honed like the knife-blades he carried. He shut the bedroom door behind him without a sound and glided noiselessly to the window at the east end of the corridor.

He carefully put down out of the way the boots he was carrying, slipped between the curtains and raised the sash. There was a balcony outside, running all along the face of the central block and extending round at right-angles to the east wing. He blessed the hubris of whoever had built the house and valued symmetry over the status of the lower orders housed in this wing. The balcony took him as far as the east end of the building.

He had already calculated from the clues he had found so far that the most likely place to keep a prisoner hidden was in one of the far rooms on the second floor. Catherine's peculiar use of the present tense in her revelations and her haste to change what she had been about to say had been the last piece of evidence he needed. He had hoped she would confide the entire plot to him, but he was content with what he had heard, for it served to confirm his own observations about what had been going on in this house since that implausible and so convenient accident.

He reached the end of the balcony and looked up. The fretted supporting pillars would be easy enough to climb and he would have to hope that the roof over the balcony would stand his weight. Some minutes passed before he found himself pressed against the upper wall of the house, his bare feet gripping as best he could the sloping roof beneath him. He edged his way along cautiously until he was beneath the end window. Now he had another seven or so feet to climb, but it might just as well have been a hundred. There were no carvings at this level, the fascia-boarding angled downwards and there was nothing to give him any support.

Resignedly, he pulled out a knife and drove it into the woodwork as high as he could raise his foot. A second went at the extent of his arm. He began to climb, using the knife-handles as footholds, taking care not to step on to any part of the blade and doing his best not to look down. The climb took longer than he wished, for he had to drive into another corner of his mind, to subdue and lock up where they could not shake his resolve, his fears of the long drop behind him. Only his formidable will kept him inching up the fragile ladder towards his goal.

Presently he was at the level of the window, one knee on the sill. He extracted his last knife and inserted it into the sash. There was a click and the catch gave. He eased the window open, praying that there were no guards in the room itself. Hearing and sensing nothing, he slid cautiously over the window-sill and stood in the darkness of the room beyond. Dark – but not empty.

He knew at once there was an occupant. And the room had a smell with which he was all too familiar: the vile and unmistakable smell of a prison. He waited for long minutes to pass while he became accustomed to the darkness of the room and acquired a sense of its furnishings, so that he could move without fear of disturbing the least object.

When he had a complete sense of the unlit room, he glided over to the bed. There was a man, apparently sleeping. Not daring to risk a light, he stretched out a tentative finger and touched the cheek nearest to him, the left. His fingertips brushed over the scar just beneath the cheekbone and his heart nearly stopped as his whole being contracted into a spasm of agony.

Mastering an urge to explode into fury and break everything around him including the prison door, he allowed his fingers to continue their gentle exploration. Across the parted lips and clenched jaw he could feel a gag, linen or something else soft but deadly effective. They could not even let him breathe easily in his sleep! A quick exploration of the bed revealed that its occupant was bound hand and foot to the frame. Despite his longing to do so, he knew he dared not sever these bonds or even loosen the gag. He continued his tactile exploration and as his touch brushed over the sleeping man's face, his fingertips were recording bruises, open gashes still oozing blood, lips swollen and parched. He let his hand run on down the unconscious body, across the chest and stomach, finding unmistakable damage to the ribs and, everywhere, evidence of brutal handling intended to break a man's resistance. But this man had not broken, otherwise he would not still be here.

He knelt down, his face so close to the prisoner's, his whisper just a breath across the sleeping man's ear. "Hold on. I won't leave you here. Just hold on. I'm going to get you out of this."

He did not need to identify himself or make any other promise. If his words penetrated the sleeper's uneasy dreams, there was no sign. He wrapped his arms round the prisoner, in a way he would never have ventured if he had been in his right mind and the other fully conscious. He was striving to pass on his own vitality and warmth, his strength and his loyalty, in silent communication with the man he had not even known for certain, until a few short hours ago, that he was coming to rescue. How long he remained there, kneeling with his arms round the prisoner, hearing the faint, irregular pulses of the sleeper's heart, he never knew.

At last the first faint stirrings of dawn disturbed his vigil. He rose silently to his feet and retraced the steps he had taken to find and infiltrate this prison. By the time light had reached the empty corridors and sleep-filled bedrooms of the house, he had regained the first floor landing and retrieved his boots. He paused momentarily outside the door from which he had emerged on this exploration and his hands clenched so hard his nails drew blood.

Then he went on to his own room and fell, like someone exhausted after a titanic struggle, onto the bed which was nominally his. His eyes closed at last, but only after he had forged and cooled his fury into a weapon of retribution that he would employ tomorrow.


	13. Chapter 13

' _Nobody looks like_

 _what they really are on the inside._

… _It's true of everybody_.'

Neil Gaiman

 **DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART**

 **13**

The next morning, disaster nearly struck.

There were few occasions when Andy Sherman had been allowed outside the suite of rooms on the second floor, but no matter what the necessity, you cannot keep an active teenage boy locked up for ever. Nathaniel had reached a compromise whereby, in return for Andy's cooperative behaviour, he was allowed to ride out, closely escorted, in the morning every second or third day.

This was a time of partial release which Andy eagerly awaited, each time hoping something or someone would bring about a change in his virtual captivity. At least, on a horse, he had some feeling of continuity with his old life, some hope that one day he might be able to slip his close escort and spur the animal to freedom. If only he was sure there was a person and a place to whom he could flee! But Jonesy would not be able to defend him, the relay station was in hostile hands and Jess … Jess might as well be in Texas, and, if he was, how could Andy possible find him in such a vast territory? If he did, he was no longer so sure, after enduring this long, inexplicable silence and absence, that he would even be welcome. He just had to be content with the immediate, each little moment which might bring relief, each tiny scrap of liberty.

This morning, leaving his rooms, Andy descended the stairs at the western end of the central block well ahead of his escort. He was charged with unspent energy and, when he hit the first floor corridor, he turned towards the main staircase at a run. At the same time, he saw a man emerge from one of the bedrooms further along who, as he turned his back to shut the door, was suddenly a figure of heart-stopping familiarity. Andy's emotions were so intense he did not cry out – he just fled desperately to Jess and flung his arms round him with all the fervour of a child's loneliness and love. He burrowed fiercely into the solid comfort of the embrace he knew so well and felt, for a fraction of a second, an equally vehement response. Then fingers touched his neck in the twin hunting signals for 'silence' and 'wait'.

Andy drew a shuddering breath and steeled himself to obey. There was clearly even more danger in his situation than he had been able to work out for himself. As if to confirm this, his uncle's voice sounded with barely concealed anger from the hall below: "Andrew, what do you think you are doing!"

He had no chance to reply, because the answer came from a voice he did not recognise, but which resonated in the deep chest against which he was still firmly held. "I don't mind consoling your niece, Mr Sherman, but I do object to babysitting badly behaved boys."

Andy looked up in amazement and saw the face of the man at the funeral – a stranger, ice-cold, black eyes set in a haggard face and the lips which had just spoken carved in a thin line beneath the narrow moustache. It was horribly disconcerting because he had been bear-hugged often enough by Jess to know without the least suspicion of a doubt what that felt like physically. Now it felt the same, yet he looked and sounded utterly different. The double impact of the sudden meeting and the shock of Jess's totally changed personality made Andy's head spin and his knees shake. He held his breath, wondering how this familiar stranger would act.

One hand tightened in a powerful grip on Andy's shirt and jacket and he suddenly found himself lifted over the balustrade and dangling above the hallway below. "He's becoming an annoyance, don't you think? And you know how I react to children – especially those who need a persuasive lesson or two in doing as they are told! Now where would you like me to put him?"

It was just the kind of trick Jess would play! Andy knew he was completely safe because Jess would never let him fall, but the shock was considerable all the same. His voice sounded so cruel, so much as if he was enjoying the threat to Andy and relishing his helplessness. Andy had no idea what might happen and how he was going to survive this danger. Everything depended on his uncle's reaction.

"My dear Warwick, do please avoid damaging him. As I pointed out before, I prefer to keep the members of my household in one piece, even the rather annoying younger ones. I'd be grateful if you would continue to frame your actions accordingly." There was no hint in Nathaniel's voice of the value of the asset currently suspended over a considerable drop onto the unforgiving tiles of the entrance hall.

"In that case, Mr Sherman, you'd better have him!" The other hand seized Andy's arm, swinging him up again, and he just had time to react to the hand-signal for 'hold on' as he was dropped unceremoniously astride the banisters and began to slide rapidly down into the hall. _Typical Jess_! Andy thought, struggling with enormous relief and a hysterical desire to whoop and yell with laughter. He would never have let such an opportunity to have fun go unused and by resolving the issue in this way had ensured Andy would not simply be sent straight back to his luxurious confinement.

There was a rustle of silk and a drift of perfume as Catherine came out onto the landing in time to catch sight of this piece of action. She drew close to the man standing looking down at the boy, who had sprinted past his uncle in a determined dash for the front door. "Really, Caine – playing with children? I thought such sentimental behaviour was beneath you."

"Not nearly as far beneath as some adults!" The murmur was barely audible as he turned and politely offered her his arm. He said aloud, "Children have their uses. Encouraging their elders to part with information, for instance!" They proceeded to follow Andy in a decorous manner, although their route of their respective rides did not coincide.

 **# # # # #**

At Colonel Frobisher's residence that afternoon, an ostensibly refined tea-party was taking place. Catherine Sherman-Gordon arrived on the arm of her now customary escort, with a smile for Eleanor which combined triumph and pity under a veneer of politeness. They had scarcely entered the room, however, before another confrontation took place which was far less amicable even than the one between the two women.

As Caine Warwick guided Catherine to a suitably prominent couch, there was a stir on the other side of the room. A red-headed, bearded man with a scarred face shouldered his way out of the gathered company.

"You!" the man snarled. "I never thought you'd dare show your face here again!"

"My face is in rather better shape than yours," Warwick drawled with a smirk. "Try not to be such a nuisance this time, will you? Or I might just have to finish the job."

"Why, you -!" The red-headed man stopped as he obviously recalled where he was and bit back the label, no doubt fully justified, which he had been about to apply to his opponent.

"Don't waste my time!" Warwick turned his back and focused his attention on the women. "You're annoying me."

The provocation proved too much. "I'll do more than that!" the other man snarled, as a knife appeared in his hand and his stance dropped to a fighting crouch. Warwick turned swiftly and took two paces towards him, treating him to a look of savage contempt, as they came face to face. They were pretty much of the same height and built, but there the resemblance ended. The stranger was furious, clumsy and, in the heat of the moment, barely civilised; Warwick was cool, sophisticated, deadly as a polished knife-blade himself.

"You wouldn't dare to cut butter with that knife!" There was a sneer on Warwick's face to match the words. His right hand had pushed back the tails of his coat and was hovering intentionally above the first knife in his belt.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" The Colonel strode towards them, his tones icy. Then he turned to a tall man in black, who had moved out of the group to join him. "Can't you do anything to control your relative, Stewart?"

"Another of them!" the red-headed man shouted, still poised ready to fight. "Which one of the hell-tribe are you?"

The man in black stepped between the pair and picked the red-head up casually by the lapels of his coat, as he said, "Stewart Vincent St John Warwick. I don't believe we have been formally introduced, but I am willing to overlook that for a little co-operation." He paused a moment as something seemed to occur to him: "Oh, and for not cutting up my cousin in front of the ladies."

"Oh, do put him down, Stewart!" Caine Warwick remarked goadingly, "I'd like to see if he can to any better the second time." His fingers closed round the hilt of his first knife, although he did not draw it.

"Gentlemen!" the Colonel exclaimed again. "Two at least of you come from a good family and should know better. I suggest you withdraw to my study and settle this matter without further disturbance to this gathering."

"With pleasure!" The red-headed man wrenched himself out of the grasp which was restraining him and strode towards the doorway.

Caine Warwick turned to Eleanor, a very faint smile touching his lips. "I apologise, Miss Eleanor. I hope he has not been making himself disagreeable again?" She shook her head as he took her hand and bowed over it. "In that case, I'll try not to damage him too much for irritating me!" He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, without so much as a glance at Catherine.

The drawing room door closed behind the four men and Eleanor turned her attention to pouring the tea once more. Her hand was rock steady and her eyes were gleaming as she noted Catherine's expression, which hardly added to her beauty or her sophistication.

The study door closed too. The four occupants drew breath and relaxed very slightly.

"Now, quickly," the Colonel said. "This excuse isn't going to last for ever."

"Vin, I need the Ranulfhjar – tonight."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Rescue a prisoner. Top floor, east wing, last room on the right."

"Guards?"

"Stair-head. Maybe corridor. None in the room."

"Access from outside?"

"Window from the balcony roof. Needs grappling or a ladder. Lock's forceable." Suddenly his breath hitched and he clenched his teeth, fighting back the emotions he had pinned ruthlessly down for so long.

"Bad?" the red-headed man asked softly.

"Torture. Ribs broken. Maybe more injuries. Needs doctor. Jonesy too. Will you …?"

"Of course!"

"Bring him here," the Colonel ordered decisively. "It's safer and public enough."

"Need you too, sir."

The Colonel nodded in agreement as he pledged his support. "To challenge Nathaniel Sherman to account for himself and what we're going to find in his house. Between us, Stewart and I have traced enough of his dealings." His tone was full of condemnation.

The other Warwick amplified: "Moving arms for hostiles - money from hold-ups and bank-robberies, forgeries maybe – contraband, alcohol, gem-stones - narcotics too, Li's folk think. Anything which can be concealed as freight and distributed along the stage routes for a good profit."

"Now that we have evidence of the extent of his criminal intentions and actions, he will certainly be brought to trial," the Colonel informed his listeners.

"For what he did over there?" The dark man was staring out of the window. "For kidnapping and torture?"

"Yes!"

"Still don't see why the Laramie station was worth the effort?" The question sounded as if it had been dragged from his throat.

"Closeness to Canada," Vin Warwick replied promptly. "You know first-hand that things are, to say the least, unsettled over there. But even more, I don't think he liked being thwarted!"

The man they had been calling Caine Warwick nodded slowly. He was still staring with a frown of concentration fixed on the Sherman residence just down the road, as he went over in his mind the possible courses of action and the provisions they had made. The other three waited expectantly. He drew in a long breath, then continued in the verbal shorthand which was all which was necessary between men who had fought for their lives together.

"Six more men. East wing, first floor. Leave Bradley."

"The woman?"

Caine Warwick shrugged. "Knows. Doesn't care." The cold rage in his tone indicated to whom these statements applied.

"The boy?"

"West wing. Second floor. One guard at night. Door double-locked."

"I'll get him," Cal promised.

"He knows. Spotted me today. That's why it must be tonight." He hesitated and then his voice cracked as, with bitter anguish, he admitted: "I can't keep this up much longer!"

Vin exchanged glances with Cal, both of them inwardly appalled at the toll this impersonation had taken, the way in which outward appearances had bitten into the inner core of the younger man's spirit. Cal's instinctive move towards him was aborted before it had even begun, because he understood that there was no comfort anyone could offer to redeem this agony of the soul, except the loyalty they had given all along.

"Tonight, then!"

* * *

NOTES:

I am indebted in this chapter to the crime writer, Dorothy L. Sayers, who pointed out that backs are much more distinctive and difficult to disguise than faces.


	14. Chapter 14

' _Nobody looks like_

 _what they really are on the inside._

… _It's true of everybody_.'

Neil Gaiman

 **DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART**

 **14**

Dinner at the Sherman mansion that night was fashionably late and more than usually prolonged by the presence of numerous guests, men of business or influence and their women, whom Nathaniel was cultivating.

Catherine sparkled as her uncle's hostess, her flawless white skin and black mourning dress setting off to perfection the diamonds which he had given her to wear; their provenance was dubious but their beauty was as undoubted as that of the woman who wore them. There was a certain sleekness about her, a secret smile of satisfaction, which made Nathaniel wonder. He looked along the table to where Bradley and Warwick sat amongst his guests. Bradley was studiously ignoring the other man and paying gallant court to the ladies on either side of him, rather as if he was trying to demonstrate his popularity. Caine Warwick was, as always, entirely courteous, largely silent and apparently disinterested in his dining partner and in Catherine. If there was anything between them, he was not displaying the sheen of conquest. In fact his expression suggested the readiness to violence which Nathaniel had observed when he had stabbed Bradley's hand and tortured the child.

Nathaniel went on wondering. He wondered particularly why he had received a note by hand from Colonel Frobisher, requesting a meeting when the dinner was finished. It was unlike the Colonel – a man of very regular habits – to be anywhere other than his own domicile at that time of night. As the men finally finished their port and brandy and rose from the table to join the ladies in the drawing room, Nathaniel held Bradley back: "Make sure you have all the men on guard and the house is secure tonight. Especially upstairs! I'm not happy about the Colonel's visit."

Bradley nodded and left the room. Nathaniel beckoned to Warwick, who strolled round the table, glass in hand. "I may need your skills tonight, if you would care to employ them, Warwick. That is, should I require my uninvited guest to make a speedy return to his own home!"

"Anticipating trouble, Mr Sherman? Surely the good Colonel is entirely beyond reproach? He's hardly likely to start a rough-house, is he? At least, unless he's able to turn up with a military escort!"

"I don't think so. I would just like to know why he's turning up at all."

"Probably to ask you to run me out of town," Warwick responded lightly. "I'm afraid I threatened someone in his house this afternoon. But he was begging for it!"

"Indeed? Not the red-headed man whose face you rearranged?"

"The same. He seems unable to take a hint not to trespass."

Nathaniel made a note to relay this piece of information to Catherine. Warwick evidently did not confine his attentions to one woman at a time. Out loud he laughed and said, "That's a relief. If such a minor matter is the only problem, I assure you he will not succeed in persuading me to change my guests or my habits."

"That's a relief!" The low tones sounded mocking as Warwick refilled his glass but, contrary to his usual habit, did not drain it at once. When they left the room, the glass, like his wine glass at dinner, remained untasted on the table. As they crossed the hall to the drawing room and passed the foot of the stairs, Warwick fell slightly behind Nathaniel in what looked like deference, but in fact enabled him to give a secret hand-signal which was picked up by the man crouching in the darkness on the landing above.

 **# # # # #**

Andy stood, irresolute, in the middle of his room as darkness gathered and the evening wore on. There had been no sign of Jess when he had returned from his ride, but this was scarcely surprising as his contact with other adults in the house – baring those detailed to escort him – was minimal. He was still in a state of shock, part elation at the answer to his prayers, part fear because Jess was so changed.

The change ran so deep. It was as if Jess had become someone else entirely, someone who Nathaniel Sherman called 'Warwick' and with whom his uncle was obviously on familiar terms. The name rang a bell somewhere in Andy's mind, but recent events had blotted out almost all memory of his past; he did not recall the time Vin and Cal had come to the relay station and, even if he had, he had been so pleased to be on first name terms with them that their surnames never really registered with him. The name could have comforted him a little, but, as it was, it only compounded the strangeness and the dread which arose because these people, whom Andy had come to hate, seemed to be only too friendly to Jess.

For Andy remembered that woman, Catherine, coming out on to the landing. Remembered her standing there, coolly assuming the man would escort her. Remembered them following him down the staircase, arm in arm. Andy had wanted stop it, to drag Jess away from her, to demand his undivided loyalty. But Jess had signalled 'wait' and Andy was to wait and say nothing – the order was clear enough. He just didn't know how long he was to wait.

It was impossible to undress and lie in bed, knowing Jess was somewhere in the house and trusting, with all the fervent power and hope of extreme youth, that he was going to do something to end the barely disguised captivity into which his brother's death had plunged Andy. But he could not guess what or when. The helplessness was unbearable and Andy found himself pacing up and down the room until he felt he would wear away a track in the thick carpet. There was nothing he could do to get ready for whatever was going to happen. He just had to wait and be silent.

Silence enveloped the house, once dinner was over and the guests of the night had departed somewhat noisily. It seemed to stifle Andy's hopes and made him feel as if there was, after all, no-one and nothing beyond this room he loathed so much. Time seemed to be suspended, just as it had been in his first grief, but now he was tormented by hope and fear together.

Just as he felt he could bear this suspense no longer, his strained senses alerted him to something strange. He heard a faint sound outside his door. It might have been a slight scuffle followed by a very soft thud. He stood, staring, as the lock moved with a faint click, then the second lock and the door swung open.

"Andy? It's Cal."

"Where's Jess?" It wasn't the most thankful or tactful response he could have made to being rescued at last, but it was the only and the most urgent question.

"He's downstairs. We're goin' to join him in a minute," Cal told him reassuringly, glad to see that Andy was still awake and dressed and ready for action. He took the boy by the shoulders as, very seriously, he added, "Andy, we're still in a dangerous situation. When we go downstairs, there are goin' to be things which puzzle and surprise you. Can you do as Jess asks?"

"Keep quiet and wait? Yes – like we do when we're hunting something dangerous."

"You're well trained! But he did expand the order a bit: he says give him one hug and then keep out from under his feet."

Andy gave a shaky grin. "That sound exactly like Jess! Yes, I will, of course!"

"Good. Just keep alert and ready and do exactly as you are told, whatever happens. Now, come with me. We'll find them all in the drawing room."

 **# # # # #**

After bidding farewell to the last of her guests, Catherine remained in the drawing room with the men and her uncle, as Colonel Frobisher, in full dress uniform, was ushered in for his meeting. She was fairly sure he had come to complain about the incident at his tea-party, but knew that her uncle would hardly wish to dismiss someone as ruthless and as useful as Caine Warwick had proved to be. This suited her very well. The controlled violence of the afternoon had only added to her pleasurable anticipation of a further liaison which she, and not Eleanor Frobisher, would enjoy that night.

It was a considerable surprise when not only the Colonel entered, but with him the man she recognised as the other St John Warwick, the one who had been at the Frobisher's in the afternoon. This was, presumably, some relation of Caine's – she remembered him being involved in the altercation with the red-headed man - but his presence here and now was puzzling. She was so perturbed by this that she did not notice Caine himself move unobtrusively to the door and slide through it. Neither did Nathaniel.

Neither, too, were Nathaniel nor Catherine to puzzle long over the reason for this meeting. The Colonel gave the briefest and most formal of greetings: "You know who I am, Mr Sherman. With me is Lieutenant Stewart St John Warwick, late of the Confederate army and now in the employ of the US government."

Nathaniel accorded both men a very slight bow, acknowledging that they had the status and the power to challenge him. The Colonel continued: "Mr Sherman, I have come here to confront you with your attempts to create and utilise an illegal network of distribution centres across our country for criminal purposes. In pursuit of this aim, you and your employees have used systematic intimidation and violence to achieve your ends. You also stand accused of the capture, captivity and torture of one of your opponents and of the kidnapping and detention of a minor. These are serious charges."

"These are ridiculous charges!" Nathaniel blustered. "You haven't a shred of evidence to support such allegations."

The Colonel and Lieutenant Warwick exchanged glances. They seemed to be waiting for something. Almost at once there were distant sounds of a fierce struggle, much heavy movement, a few brief cries and several loud thuds. Catherine started, looked at her uncle and said, "There seems to be a problem upstairs. I will get the servants to deal with it." She made a swift exit from the room, ignoring the call from the Colonel that it would be better for her to remain where she was.

She had only just reached the foot of the stairs when two men appeared on the landing, carrying a heavy stretcher. To her utter disbelief, they descended slowly and carefully, handling their burden with attention. As they drew level with her, she looked down and addressed the man on the stretcher with venom: "You stupid fool, if you'd told us the truth, you needn't have suffered any of this."

"You are always so considerate to your guests, Miss Catherine!"

The sarcastic tones made her look up abruptly. Caine Warwick was standing above them on the stairs, looking, for once, slightly dishevelled and wiping clean the knife he held in his hand. "I think if he had told you anything, he certainly wouldn't suffer any more – he really would be dead now!" He turned to the men carrying the stretcher. "Take him into the drawing room," he ordered.

"Caine!"

"You'd better come in too. You may need to make some decisions about your public and private reactions to the truth."

He walked straight past her, as impersonal and unresponsive as a passer-by in the street, and went into the room. Catherine followed him like someone under compulsion or hypnosis.


	15. Chapter 15

' _Nobody looks like_

 _what they really are on the inside._

… _It's true of everybody_.'

Neil Gaiman

 **DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART**

 **15**

Catherine found Nathaniel Sherman standing by the fireplace and Colonel Frobisher still confronting him. In the hall outside there was the sound of purposeful feet and the thud of bodies being flung to the floor. Then four other men, those who had so successfully invaded his house, entered the room and stood on alert guard. Rueben Bradley was the only one of her uncle's employees who remained at his side. She moved across the room to join them and to face the formidable force now drawn up against them.

Her entry in to the room was swiftly followed by a rush of young footsteps and, in a replay of that morning, Andrew Sherman hurled himself across the room into the arms of the man who had so recently threatened to drop him from the first floor landing. His voice choked as he cried: "You're really here!"

"Easy, Tiger! There's someone else here you'll be very glad to see too!" Caine Warwick turned the boy from his embrace, so he could see the stretcher.

"Slim!" Andy leant towards his brother and then shock, pain and relief so flooded his being that he staggered and almost fainted. Strong arms caught him and a reassuring voice murmured, "It's all right. It's all all right now!"

"You!" Nathaniel spat out in consternation, suddenly realising that all his schemes had been thwarted by someone he had been both trying to recruit into his organisation and, at the same time, to eliminate. He ground his teeth as he glared at a man over whom neither power nor success nor money nor status nor safety had any influence. "Why? You could have had everything a man could want if you'd thrown in with me! Why?"

Caine Warwick bent over the stretcher and reached down to trace the scar on the unconscious man's cheek with a gentle finger. "Because unlike you, Nathaniel Sherman, and despite the name I bear, I _am_ my brother's keeper."

Nathaniel looked at the boy, clinging with his arms round the ruthless knife-man, and at that knife-man's hand, so capable of dealing death, which still lay lightly on the released prisoner's cheek. He could not come to terms with the contradictions, for never before in his life had he felt real force of the power of true loyalty.

Warwick straightened up and ran his hand through the boy's hair, then gave him a gentle push towards the man who had entered the room with him. "Stay with Cal, Andy, while I do what needs to be done here."

Shocked realisation was working its way, like slow poison, through Nathaniel's mind and he snarled, "You're no member of the Warwick family! You're just a small-time drifter on the make!"

"He's been adopted." Lieutenant Warwick sounded unexpectedly amused but the reminder was timely. Nathaniel knew and feared the reputation of the St John Warwick clan and those they acknowledged as theirs. He suddenly realised what an efficient, professional force had been arrayed against him in the person of the seven who had obviously disarmed his own men and were now filling his drawing room with the threat of further violence. And he heard a cold voice that struck fear into his heart – the voice which he knew was swiftly followed by the application of a razor-sharp knife:

"Perhaps your opinion explains your error of judgement. Do you know what your mistake was? The one thing that led to uncovering your plans? You should never have tried to persuade me to leave – I would have gone by myself and willingly. What did I have to stay for? But you measured me by your own greed." Warwick reached into the breast pocket of his coat and withdrew some folded paper. "Now I am going to make you eat your bribe and your idea of me!"

He moved suddenly, with fluid and deadly speed, grabbed Nathaniel by the throat and prised open his mouth. "Eat!"

The torn up 100 dollar bills were forced between his teeth. No matter how he struggled and tried to fight back, implacable fingers bit into him like steel and he gagged, choking on the money. He remembered Caine Warwick's first handshake and the pain he had not then recognised as a warning. The irony of his own knowledge of the man's ruthless and deadly character finally overwhelmed him. His breathing faltered and his vision began to blur.

"Jess." It was the red-headed man from whose face the scars now seemed mysteriously to have disappeared and to whom, for some reason Nathaniel could not fathom, Andrew Sherman had been entrusted. "He can't answer in court if he can't speak." His voice was calm and practical, the call of sanity in a world of pain and rage.

Nathaniel felt the fingers slacken. His knees gave way and he dropped to the floor, struggling to spit out the vile-tasting bills. As he coughed helplessly, the Colonel addressed him again: "Do you still think I have no evidence for the accusations I've charged you with tonight? At least four people in this room can testify against you and those you employ!"

"We were just following orders!" Bradley spoke for the first time, making the classic defence dear to those caught red-handed in acts against civilisation. At the sound of his voice, the man who had driven a knife through his hand turned and took two steps towards him. Bradley tried to back away but found himself cornered against the table in the middle of the room. He was horribly trapped as he stared into that face, as ferocious and merciless as any he had ever given orders to.

But Warwick simply said quietly: "Oh, yes – Mr Bradley. I'm in your debt. You must remind me what I owe you!"

The words struck a chord of memory, but Bradley's mind was struggling with panic and a sense of the ground falling out from under him. He knew when he had heard them and he knew they were about to unleash a deadly revenge. He had committed the look of that stubborn ranch-hand to memory and he simply could not believe this revelation. The cold-blooded, silent villain, with whom he had lived and worked, bore no resemblance to what he remembered – only the driving, unwavering self-command did. He tried desperately to think of some way of escaping. He stuttered confusedly, "You're part of this, Warwick! Think what you're losing. You're wasting everything we've built up."

"Built up by driving out honest people from their homes, by terrorising and intimidation and beatings. What part would I want in that?" Warwick grabbed him by the arm, twisting it savagely behind his back so he doubled over the table. "Perhaps you need to know what your methods feel like?"

Bradley gasped out: "You've been part of them! You've acted tough enough up till now! Are you resenting the little misunderstanding we had the night we took over your relay station?"

"Resenting?" Warwick laughed disbelievingly. Then he gave another savage twist to Bradley's arm and growled: "Do you think there is anything you could do to me, anything that I wouldn't suffer, for Slim?"

The sound of his own name in those deep tones roused the man on the stretcher. He struggled to sit up and cried out: "Jess, is that you?"

Bradley fell back as his assailant abruptly let go of him and went swiftly across the room. He caught the struggling man in his arms and held him gently, "Relax, I'm here."

" 'Bout time too!" Slim mumbled groggily. He dragged his bruised eyes painfully open and peered blurrily at the dark face bending over him. "Dear God, you look terrible!"

"So do you!" Jess's arms tightened convulsively as he took in for the first time in good light the details of the damage done to Slim. "Now let the doc take care of you - and then we're all going home!" He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder, "Stay with him, Andy. I've still got something to finish."

The boy slipped out of Cal's arm and moved at once to kneel beside his brother, taking a shaking hand in his. Jess eased Slim back with infinite care until he was lying flat again. Then, with a blur of movement too fast for anyone to stop, he lunged across the room and lashed out with a savage kick, propelling Bradley backwards over the table. Jess had a knee on his chest and a knife in each hand before anyone else could do more than gasp.

He said in quiet, almost matter of fact tones: "Now, Mr Bradley, you'll pay for what you did - not to me, but to Slim."

"Stop! Don't!" The plea came not from Bradley but from the stretcher. Slim could read Jess's voice, even if he couldn't see what was going on. "Jess, you don't have to do this."

"No. But I want to."

"No you don't. He isn't worth it."

"But you are."

"I'm telling you to stop."

"Why?"

"Because I don't have the strength to get up and make you!"

For a long moment, everything hung in the balance. Then Jess dragged Bradley to his feet again. "You are one very lucky man, Mr Bradley. I hope they find a suitable hole for you to rot in!"

He shoved the grovelling agent in the direction of Vin, who had been half way across the room before he recalled that someone else was in command now. Everyone else released the pent-up breath they had been holding. At a signal from Vin, the other members of the Ranulfhjar seized Bradley and marched him out to join the rest of the demoralised guards, who were trussed up in the hall.

"Outside there are US Marshalls, waiting for my signal to arrest you and your criminal gang, Mr Sherman." The Colonel's voice was cold and remorseless. "On the evidence we have found tonight in your house and the details uncovered by Lieutenant Warwick and his team, I have no doubt that you will be brought to trial and convicted very swiftly." Frobisher paused for a moment and then added with obvious distaste, "You are a neighbour and have given me to understand that you are a gentleman. I therefore offer you the option of leaving the house without being restrained like the rest of your employees, provided I have your word – for what it is worth – that you will come without resistance."

Nathaniel visibly pulled together the shattered remnant of his dignity and authority. He was already counting the friends he had made whose power and influence he relied on to rescue him from the ruins of his schemes. In passing, he snarled futilely at the man he still thought of as Caine Warwick: "And this is how you repay my hospitality!"

Warwick stalked over to the stretcher. He looked down at the two Sherman brothers. The elder, exhausted by the cost of intervening to stop Bradley being cut to ribbons, had collapsed back into unconsciousness. Successive shocks had brought the younger very nearly at the end of his physical and emotional resources. Warwick's eyes lifted and his black stare transfixed Nathaniel, as he said in icy tones: "This is the hospitality I am repaying!"

"Come!" The Colonel stood at the door, ready to escort Nathaniel Sherman to his arrest. He had no option but to obey. In the hall, Vin was issuing brief orders about the disposal of the prisoners.

As Nathaniel was marched from the room, Jess turned to the red-headed man. "Cal, take Andy and Slim to the Frobisher's, will you? Vin and I'll tidy up here."

Cal nodded and extended a hand to Andy. "Come on, Tiger. The doc's waitin' for Slim and so is Jonesy. He'll be hoppin' about like a cat on a hot bricks!"

Andy let go of his brother's hand and decided the time for following Jess's instructions was now over. He gave his rescuer another mammoth hug and demanded: "You will come soon, won't you?"

"As soon as I've finished what I have to do," Jess gave the promise again. He handed Andy over to Cal's care and stood quite still, watching as the stretcher was carried away and the others followed it. When he could hear them safely leaving through the front door, the smallest sigh escaped him.

 **# # # # #**

Catherine Sherman-Gordon stood alone in the room which had suddenly emptied the frightened and the angry. She drew in a deep breath and summoned every ounce of her considerable will-power.

Caine Warwick had his back to her. He did not move. It was almost as if he was not there, but had escaped somewhere far off. Again she was overwhelmed by the feeling that she was in the room with a ghost. But what had been between them was far too real. She clenched her fists, for she too was still unable to believe the real identity of the man who has so successfully played them at their own game. Her rage at the deception struck out, but it was as if she were trying to attack at a chimera, a delusion. Yet there could be no doubt about Warwick's reality nor about what she thought of him.

It seemed as if he would leave without looking back, but then, at the last moment, he turned in the doorway and took a couple of steps towards her. His face was completely expressionless, as if they were total strangers.

"I find it hard to believe," she hissed at him, "that a nobody like you has the brains to organise a ruthless plot like this! But you've been totally unscrupulous in following your orders."

"You've been surrounded by the ruthless and unscrupulous all your life – some of them have much more to answer for than you seem to care about. You gave me to understand you preferred that kind to anyone with integrity."

"You could have had everything if you'd joined them!"

"More than I've already had?" The question was delivered with a kind of grim amusement.

Catherine spat back at him: "You were just something to while away the time."

"You should be more careful how you spend your time, then!"

"And how did you spend your time? You came here to lie and cheat. You imitated a gentleman, which you certainly are not! You used our trust and hospitality treacherously to plot against us! You came here just to undermine and thwart your betters!"

"I came here to find out if you shared my grief. Your every action showed that you did not. And I came to see if you would care for a bereaved child. You made your priorities clear from the very start." Just for a moment the mask was torn away and she was looking into the eyes of someone driven by an overwhelming compulsion to complete a harrowing task, if necessary by methods which revolted his true being. Catherine smiled without mirth, knowing that she was revenged by the damage which she had done to the spirit of this man because she had made his impersonation a reality. Turning the knife in the wound, she taunted: "Yet you couldn't resist me, could you?"

His implacable expression instantly cut off all sign of emotion. The cold glance ran over her as it had done at their first meeting. He shrugged and said unemphatically: "I closed my eyes and thought of someone I'd rather be with. Perhaps you did the same?"

Rage and pride obliterated all other considerations in her mind. She could not bear to speak of the intimacy they had shared, but lashed out at him with trivialities: "When I think that I have breathed the same air as you, walked on the same carpets, sat and eaten at the same table – it revolts me! You are nothing – a vulgar, unimportant underling – worthless – trash! I'm surprised you can even use a knife and fork properly!"

"Oh, I can use a knife all right!" His hand flicked back his coat, revealing the knife-belt as he had earlier in that day. Catherine turned suddenly pale as he said quietly, "I've never been more tempted to use one on a woman!"

They were the last words to pass between them.


	16. Chapter 16

" _The ache for home lives in all of us,_

 _the safe place where we can go as we are_

 _and not be questioned."_

Maya Angelou

 **RETURN**

 **16**

It was much later the next day that Slim and Andy were able to give statements concerning their imprisonment and treatment. Then, under Jonesy's vigilant care, they were able to make their way home slowly and in the best comfort which could be procured by the combined influences of Frobisher and Warwick.

Jess did not go with them. The legal process and the involvement of the Ranulfhjar required his continued presence in St. Louis for at least another week. Finally, however, the whole sordid and complicated business was documented with evidence sufficient for a trial to be brought in the near future. On the evening when they were at last free of it, Colonel Frobisher admitted to his house, in ones and twos, those who had been instrumental in the break-up of the gang. As they gathered in his study, Eleanor welcomed them into the lamp-lit tranquillity and the butler dispensed well-earned glasses of champagne.

Vin stood gazing into the fire as he gathered his thoughts, before he said quietly to the Colonel, "Jess asked me to tell you, sir - you are under no further obligation to him."

"We are all under an obligation!" the Colonel responded. "All of us, from the US Government to that unfortunate young man, Matthew Sherman."

"I don't think Jess would see it that way," Vin commented. He exchanged a glance with Cal, who was looking uncharacteristically serious. Cal added, "As he sees it, he is obliged to you and especially to Miss Eleanor."

Eleanor blushed and glanced around the room. Everyone else had arrived. Where was Jess? The party was, after all, in his honour. The truth was quick to dawn on her. "He's gone, hasn't he?"

Vin pulled out the silver cigar case and thoughtfully lit a cigar. When he had done so, he just nodded. It was Cal who drew her gently aside and said softly, "He's gone where he belongs. He couldn't bear to stay here any longer."

"That damned woman!" Eleanor was angry beyond the restraints of convention. "She fools men into trusting her and when she's got their respect, she casts them aside!"

"No, you're wrong," Cal said even more softly, "There was only one woman in this whole affair who he really trusted and respected – and I'm looking at her now."

Eleanor wanted to retort that it was not respect or even trust she wanted, but, face to face with this man who was so like and so unlike Jess, she became conscious that this was an immature response and uncalled for. She was suddenly aware of his compassion and calm which were just as attractive, in their own way, as the turbulent experiences she had shared with Jess. She drew a deep breath and smiled and said, "Thank you. He's lucky to have had you with him."

Cal's eyes twinkled just a little as he murmured, "Ain't the first time and I guess it won't be the last I get to haul my little cousin out of trouble." Then his face became more serious as he reminded her, "It cost Jess so much to find and free the ones he cares about. He's gone because he just needs to know they are all safely home."

Eleanor nodded and raised her glass. "Let's drink to that."

The clink of glasses drifted out into the night. If it reached the darkened mansion a little way down the avenue and the ears of the woman now presiding in solitary and bitter splendour, only the shadows could tell.

 **# # # # # # #**

The valley where the Travers lived was already beginning to be barred with darkness and light as the trees cast their long shadows across it. Sally came out of the cabin, a handful of chopped carrots and apples in her pocket, and wandered over to the paddock. Traveller was close to the gate, waiting for her to come and make much of him, as she had done every evening, knowing it was Jess's habit to spend some quiet moments like this with his mount at the end of each day. The flea-bitten grey mustang, Smoke, came pushing through the other horses, looking for his share too.

Sally ducked between the rails and felt in her pocket. Both horses were too well mannered to nudge her, but she could feel their impatience as they shifted from hoof to hoof. Soft lips nuzzled her palm as she shared out the treats, making sure not to spoil Traveller, even though he was the favourite: actions like that ruined a lot of training and, worse, the crucial relationship between the working pair.

Now the big bay leaned his head against her and she rubbed the small star between his eyes. He was dusty from a good roll that morning and she was wondering whether to take him into the barn for a brush-down, when he suddenly jerked away from her and flung up his head. His ears were pricked so sharply they almost touched, his eyes wide and his head snaking from side to side as he stared down the valley to the track leading up from the main Cheyenne-Laramie road. Surprised, Sally followed his gaze, but could see nothing except the lengthening shadows. She frowned and slipped hastily between the rails as Traveller, forgetting his manners for once, turned on his haunches and went bounding up the paddock, away from the fence.

The horse snorted as he spun round again, neatly and precisely, then broke into gallop, heading straight towards the paddock gate. Before Sally had the presence of mind to open it - for Traveller was certainly not going to stop - the bay had collected his pace, judged the distance and jumped high and clear, scarcely faltering as he landed.

"Trav!" Sally yelled, but her cry was drowned by a frantic neigh from the horse, who was speeding down the track as if his life depended on it.

"It can't be!" Sally breathed to herself, her heart pounding and her mind leaping frantically from one possibility to the other. But, in truth, she knew only one reason why Traveller would behave like this.

From out of the shadows came a dark figure on a black horse. They halted as the bay sped towards them and the black flung up his head and uttered a warning challenge. The rider vaulted off, dropping the black's reins so that he would stay where he was, and began to sprint up the track towards the loose horse. Sally held her breath, sure he must be mown down, but, of course, no such thing happened. Traveller dug his hooves in and lowered his head as he slid to a spectacular halt in less than ten feet. The rider flung both arms round the horse's neck and buried his face in the dusty mane. They stood motionless for a long moment, then the man released his hold and rubbed the horse's star just as Sally had. Traveller made a long, shuddering whickering sound and nudged the man so hard that he nearly lost his footing.

"Give over, you old fool!" Sally recognised the voice, but there was something different, almost as if it was coming from a great distance, from some place where it was terribly cold. But the distance was not a literal one, because the rider turned back to collect the black and walked both horses up towards the cabin.

"Jess!" Unlike Traveller, Sally's emotions rooted her to the spot as he approached. "I can't believe you're back!"

The sound of the upheaval had penetrated into the cabin itself, bringing Martha and Dan hurrying outside, with Dan automatically snagging up his rifle as he went. They halted on the porch, realising at once it was a celebration they had heard, not an attack. The two horses stood in the yard. So did the two humans. The horses kept a wary distance from each other. So did the humans.

Dan put a hand on Martha's arm, restraining her once more from giving Jess that hug she so badly wanted to. This was unnecessary, because she had checked of her own accord and was watching the conversation between the two young people carefully. Jess was obviously telling Sally something in a curt, clipped style, accompanied by one or two brief gestures. Then she asked a question and he nodded. At this Sally flung herself across the distance between them and into his arms. A prolonged embrace seemed to be taking place.

Dan looked quizzically at his wife, whose hand had gone to her lips in shock. "Well, either he's proposed to her –" he grinned, "or it's some kind of real good news, only I can't figure what!"

"It can't be …" Martha breathed. "It can't be a miracle."

But it was. A moment later, Sally came flying up to the porch, her eyes blazing and glistening with tears at the same time and a smile of pure happiness transforming her face, as she shed in one joyous moment all the strain and grief she had been showing over the last few weeks.

"He's alive!" she yelled to her parents. "Slim's not dead! He's alive!"

"That settles which one it is, then," Dan remarked thoughtfully as she flung herself into their arms too. There were more hugs and tears as she relayed the news to her brothers and the little ones who had come tumbling out of barn and cabin at her excited cries.

The news was a total surprise to all of them. They had heard nothing of Slim and Andy's return to the relay station. Living as they did a good distance up the mountain and away from any main routes, they did not get news from passing travellers. Dan had also forbidden Sally to go in quest of information from the relay station itself or from Laramie, for he guessed she would hear nothing but rumour which would tear her heart apart. So, as Jess had promised, it was he who came to tell them what had happened – although he did not amplify the brief explanation he had initially given Sally. The news was enough and he presumably figured Slim might want to fill in the details himself.

If Sally was transformed, so was Jess, but not in the way they might have expected, given the good news he had brought. Dan strolled down to where he was again leaning against Traveller, like someone floundering in a quicksand who has finally grasped hold of a reliable rock. "Glad you're back," Dan smiled at him and then said shrewdly, "But you'll be wantin' to make the relay station before midnight! Let's get your gear together."

Jess just nodded and hitched the black stallion to the paddock rail. Everything was still stowed neatly in the barn and it took only a few minutes to prepare Smoke and Traveller. The grey was tethered a suitable distance from the black, but Jess never tied Traveller anywhere and seeing how closely the horse stuck to his owner, Dan laughed and asked: "Can you persuade that animal of yours to stay put a while? You know y' won't escape without comin' in, don't y'?"

Without seeming to, he had been taking stock of the condition of the young man in front of him. Last time he had seen Jess he had feared he was on the verge of a serious breakdown, although he would never have made his opinion known. Sometimes terrible pain is simply something that a man has to live through. So it appeared now.

Jess just said to his old companion, "C'mon, Trav." Together the two men and the horse came up to the cabin, where Jess told Traveller to wait as the foot of the steps, otherwise, Dan was convinced, the faithful steed would have followed him inside.

The fire, the lamplight, the warmth of the family and the joyful sense of celebration hit Jess like a physical blow. He almost backed out again, but, with a huge effort, controlled his impulse to run. He took off his hat and, as he came into the light, Martha and Dan could see clearly the difference in his physical appearance. To start with, he was wearing well-tailored, formal town clothes and a pale grey hat. Only the dust of the trail seemed to belong to the Jess they knew. He looked uncannily like someone else, although the real blue of his eyes was beginning to show through the belladonna-induced darkness. The moustache and hair-style made such a difference, accentuating the hard lines of his face, and there was still the mask-like control with which he was ruling his feelings. He gave every appearance of continuing to be mentally and physically strung up to meet some impending danger. The only encouraging thing about him was that he did seem to have been properly fed during his absence.

When Sally brought him the mug of coffee he took it from her without really looking up. He stood cradling the warmth in his hands and staring at the drink as if he'd never seen a mug of coffee before. When he lifted it to his lips, he drank it cautiously, without waiting for any addition of whiskey, even though it was a celebration. Dan tried to get him to have a glass, but he just shook his head silently.

"Cat got your tongue?" Dan asked jokingly.

Jess thought for a minute. "Seems that way. Haven't been talking too much lately." His tone was flat and accentless - he sounded bewildered, as if he was not sure even how to speak any more. Dan and Martha exchanged glances, remembering the brief, economic way he had first broken the news to Sally. Now he was leaning against the mantelpiece as he had done that other night when he had trusted them with Traveller. He was watching the celebrations thoughtfully but making no contribution to them. Presently he moved to place the mug carefully, deliberately, on the table in the middle of the room, as if this action had some finality for him.

Then he picked up his hat, took the registration papers which Dan returned to him, put them in his pocket and moved to the door. It seemed that he would just disappear into the night, but at the last minute he turned and said: "Give us a week or so to get things back to normal …" The sentence hung unfinished and the invitation to visit unspoken. He gulped as if speaking further might choke him, but finally managed to: "Thanks for everything. I couldn't have done anything without knowing you were here, behind me …"

They all poured out of the door after him, raising a surprised snort from Traveller, who was still standing patiently at the bottom of the steps. As Jess descended, Martha put her arm round her daughter and whispered in her ear: "Let him be. He knows how you feel." Dan looked at the pair of them shrewdly and suggested, "Time you were chasin' the little 'uns to bed, Sally."

So it was Martha who walked with Jess back down to the corral to collect the other two horses. She guessed that, having driven himself without mercy until he had completed the task he had set himself, he was still in a state of exhaustion and grief. She could feel the unstaunched wound to his spirit, as if he was actually bleeding in front of her. The jostling horses screened them from the view of those on the porch as she reached out and folded him in her arms. "Jess, there'll be a time to talk, to say what you need to say. Come back then."

A great, heaving sigh shuddered through his body and his head drooped to rest on her shoulder. He said simply, "I've been living a lie. Slim hates lies."

"Oh my dear!" Martha's strong arms drew him close into the security of understanding.

His voice sounded as though it was being cut from his throat as he choked on the whispered words: "I've done terrible -"

"Hush!" Martha's fingers pressed against his lips. "You've only done what you had to do. No-one can doubt that."

"But Slim …"

"You must trust each other. Don't be afraid to trust." She put her hand under his chin, making him lift his head, and softly kissed him on the forehead as she had done the very first time they met. "Now, go home and behave yourself according!"

Jess moved gently away and stood gazing down at her for a few seconds. As he had before, he lifted her work-worn hands to his lips and murmured, "An angel!"

When he had mounted and ridden away down the valley into the gathering dusk, Martha re-joined Dan on the porch. Her husband looked down at her with a twinkle in his eye and said, "If I didn't trust you, I'd be after that young man with a horse-whip!" Then, knowing how much pain she was carrying, he added, "He'll come back when he's good and ready. He needs you just like he was one of our own."

"If I said the right thing …" Martha looked hopeful as she tucked her arm into her husband's and together they went in to join their family. "But right now, he just needs to be home."

 **# # # # # # #**

When Jess finally reached the relay station, it was full night. With three horses, he was forced to take the main road, rather than cutting across the ridge between the Travers' valley and the Sherman ranch, and this took longer. As he came over the last rise before the dip into the yard, he halted and sat still on Traveller, looking down as he had once – it seemed so long ago now – when he knew nothing about the people or the place and was only intent on his own personal quest over the betrayal of friendship. _Betrayal_. He shivered as if the wings of a cold shadow had swept close over him.

It was a cloudy night and there were pools of darkness under the great oak tree and around the barn and the house itself. The yard was quiet and the whole place was shut down and asleep. There were no lights at the windows and only a faint wisp of smoke from the chimney, which suggested that the stove had been banked down for the night.

Jess rode in silently as his expertise and control of the horses enabled him to do. The barn was not locked and, even without a light, he moved with the ease of long familiarity. He found three empty stalls and settled the horses, before picking up his meagre luggage and walking with Indian stealth over to the house, almost as if he was attacking rather than returning. In the centre of the yard, memory froze him: the dogs had not yet been replaced. Then he moved on again, a shadow within the shadows, until he stood on the porch.

He felt in his pocket for the key. The door would almost certainly be locked. He had no wish to disturb them in the bunkroom, but would bed down on the living room couch for the night.

It was an utterly unexpected shock to find that his key would not open the door.

He felt as if someone had just stabbed him in the heart and once more his whole being convulsed in a shudder of agony. He was locked out – rejected - set adrift once more. The refusal of the key to turn in the lock was the physical manifestation of his worst fear.


	17. Chapter 17

" _The ache for home lives in all of us,_

 _the safe place where we can go as we are_

 _and not be questioned."_

Maya Angelou

 **RETURN**

 **17**

Jess stood motionless, frozen beyond even the numbness of grief, leaning his head against the cold glass of the locked door. He felt as if, in that very instant, it had actually been slammed, locked, barred and bolted in his face – an impassable barrier, separating not just his body, but his heart, his spirit, from those he had striven so hard to rescue and restore.

Then, very slowly, common sense reasserted itself. After all that had happened, it made sense to change the locks and reinforce the security which had been so violently breached. All the same, it was a blow he could have done without after the long ride from Cheyenne and the necessary visit to the Travers. Practicality suggested he should go back and find his bedroll and make himself comfortable in the hayloft for the night, but, in the immediacy of the shock, it was too much. He shuffled over to the familiar rocking chair on the porch and slumped into it.

Rest at last.

 **# # # # #**

It was Jonesy who found him when he rose in the cold twilight before dawn. The lean figure was curled uncomfortably into the chair, his dark head pillowed on his arm and his legs hitched under him as if he was prepared to jump into action. Jonesy stood looking down at him, his normally shrewd expression transformed by a softness which he would never have let Jess see when he was awake. He was remembering the night he had had to share the news of Slim's death with him and remembering too, in the time before he himself had left for St Louis, the iron control with which Jess had ridden his emotions.

The sleeping position was uncomfortable and the sleeper's rest uneasy. As Jonesy watched over him, he stirred restlessly and began to mutter in his sleep - painful, disjointed words: "Let go … too hard … letter … never meant … living lie … betrayed you … just trash … can't trust me … got to go … got to move on …"

Jonesy drew in a sharp breath. Then he turned and stumped back to the kitchen and set in motion some preparations which had nothing to do with breakfast.

After a considerable while boiling water, he went back to the porch. Waking a sleeping gunman was not a task to be undertaken lightly or without due caution. He settled for a direct approach and snapped in his best ' _you young fellers don't know how to behave_ ' style: "Wake up, you stupid Texan! Just what in tarnation d'you think y' doin' sleepin' on the porch? Ain't you got a bed of y' own round here to get into?"

Jess's eyes dragged open stickily and he groaned. "Hell! I'll never move again!"

"Yes, you will!" the old man assured him. "Now you git right out of that chair and into the bath, before I have t'drag y' there and wash y' m'self!"

This threat roused Jess to his feet and so into the welcome warmth and relaxation of a very full bath of steaming water which Jonesy had spent so much time creating in front of the kitchen stove.

Jonesy shut the door on him and set about finding some clean clothes to replace the discarded ones he had scooped up from the floor. Jess's instruction about these had disconcerted him considerably. They were expensive, fine-quality clothes. Jess had simply ordered: "Burn them!" Jonesy shook his head and wondered how you went about doing any such thing. They would certainly choke up the stove, so he settled for tossing them into the cupboard where he kept odds and ends of old clothes and sheets to be torn up and used as rags. That would have to do for the moment.

He crept back into the bunkroom and rummaged through the drawers, seeking some clean replacements amongst Jess's sparse wardrobe which he had abandoned when he left.

"Hey, Jonesy, those are Jess's things!" Andy's surprised voice said behind him. Then, with sudden hope, "Is he back?"

"Yeah, he's back," Jonesy admitted and caught Andy by his night-shirt as he made to leap out of bed. "Andy, I'm gonna ask you somethin' hard."

The boy looked at him with a troubled expression. He thought and said, "Like Cal did – one hug and keep out from under his feet?"

"Yeah – somethin' like that," Jonesy admitted, trying to find a reason which would prevent Andy's enthusiasm making things more difficult for Jess than he sensed they already were. "You remember when Jess first came, Andy? Remember how wary he was, how uncertain he was really welcome? How ready he was to take off into the wild again?"

"Yes. Is it like that now?" Andy looked horrified, as always, at the thought that Jess might leave.

"A bit," Jonesy told him. "I guess we've all had time to work through our feelin's and get over the shock of everythin', but Jess hasn't, not till now. Just go easy, huh? Let him sort himself out."

After only a little recollection, Andy said: "He was like a stranger the night he rescued us – he was so violent about what happened to Slim!" His face was pale as he remembered the flash of the knives in Jess's hands. "He would have killed that man, the agent, I know he would, if Slim hadn't stopped him. I've never ever seen him angry like that before."

"He was angry about what happened to you too," Jonesy told him. "It was the first thing he thought of – whether they would take care of you. That was what he came to St. Louis to find out. He never let up thinkin' about you an' I guess it must have hit him so hard when he couldn't have you know he was there all along. When he found out what was goin' on – that Slim was a prisoner and bein' hurt real bad - well, d'you wonder he was angry?"

"But why would it make him want –?" Andy started to protest but stopped as, with perception beyond his years, he answered his own question, "When he gets so angry, he feels he's a danger to the rest of us and he thinks we'd be safer if he was gone."

"But this time, he ain't gone, he's come home," Jonesy pointed out. "If we let him be a while, he'll realise that's where he is. Then we can all git on with business as usual." He ruffled Andy's hair, just as Jess often did, and said, "Now git dressed and I'll deliver these here clothes. The bath water'll be luke-warm and I don't need a cold, wet, ornery Jess Harper takin' up all the space in my kitchen!"

Andy grinned a little at this picture and began to comply hastily but quietly. Slim was still sleeping deeply in the other bed, oblivious to the further ramifications caused by his reported demise and rescue. Andy looked down at him closely. The wounds and bruises were beginning to heal, but he still looked pretty bad and Andy hoped the sight of him wouldn't make Jess go into that cold, white fury again. He shivered, for the first time realising what it was to be frightened by someone you love. Then he thought of all Jess had done to free them both. He did not know the full story, yet, but in the night of the rescue he had sensed something of the price. His introspection did not, however, last long: right now, whatever might have happened, a growing boy's first thoughts on getting up were of breakfast.

 **# # # # #**

Some time later, as he and Jonesy and Jess were finishing the said breakfast, the bunkroom door opened and Slim limped painfully into the living room. There was a crash of an over-turning chair as Jess leapt to his feet and growled in surprise: "What d'you think you're doing, walking about!"

"My ribs are broken, not my legs!" Slim snapped back.

Jess glared at him with more than his usual level of early morning truculence, as he picked up the chair and slammed it under the table. "No-one pounded any sense into your rock hard head yet, then? You're supposed to be healing up, resting!"

"I am resting," Slim told him. He pulled out the fourth chair and sat down. "I'm having a nice long rest watching you get on with all the work around here."

"Tell me something new!" Jess retorted as he reached for his cup and finished off his third coffee, still standing ready for action. The coffee obviously did not have its usual pacifying effect, since he went on glowering at Slim. "I suppose you want miles of boundary fence checking and all the stock counted?"

"I'm sure you can fit such a little task into the morning. I'll think of something else for you to do this afternoon."

Jess was already at the door and fastening on his gun-belt for the first time in what seemed like eternity. He picked up the familiar black hat, which, with his gun-belt, Vin had sent home with Slim and Andy. He said over his shoulder, "Fix me some food, will you please, Jonesy?" and then to Andy, "Come over to the barn when you've finished in here, Tiger. I've got something to show you."

As the door closed behind him, Andy let out a breath which was half sigh and half laugh. "Does that count as letting him be, Jonesy?"

"It counts as letting him be normal," Slim commented. "You know what he's like at breakfast!"

Andy and Jonesy exchanged glances. It was not at all what they had expected in the first encounter between these two friends. Jonesy, however, was shrewd enough to work out that Jess would hate to be thanked and Slim would instinctively know it. He figured that sparring half-jokingly about the work-load was something they did often enough for it to be part and parcel of a return to the familiar flow of life on the ranch. Andy was trusting enough to believe ' _business as usual'_ meant just what it said.

All the same, things didn't feel quite normal. Jess looked different, although the moustache had gone and his eyes were once again deep, bright blue and his hair was the same unruly tumble of dark curls, roughly trimmed into some sort of order by Jonesy as a condition of being allowed to eat breakfast. But his face was still hard-carved and cold, with no sign of his ready sense of humour and no inkling that he ever thought of fun. He seemed to be tightly controlling some feeling inside, with the same strength which he might use to control a rebellious horse. And it wasn't until later, running over the conversation in his mind, that Andy also realised how different Jess's voice sounded – kind of hard and flat, without the soft rasp of the Texan accent. He wondered about this as he helped Jonesy, but decided it was one of the things to let be.

When he had finished his indoor chores, Andy ran over to the barn and found Jess's return had meant a considerable increase in efficiency and an equal reduction in the tasks he and Jonesy had been coping with. The whole place seemed to have recovered its stability and sense of security. There was evidence of determined exertion in restoring order and routine. Although there had been no time for Jess to complete all the necessary work, the stalls looked somehow neater, the harness more polished and the horses better groomed. The latter were definitely pleased to see Jess again and Andy heartily agreed with them.

"Hey, Jess, it's real good to have you back. You've done half the work already!"

"It's what I'm paid for!" Jess retorted, before he could stop himself. Almost instantly he recognised that this was uncalled-for, even if he had been speaking to Slim when they were bickering amicably over the work-load. He was swift to make amends and ruffled Andy's hair: "Come over here, Tiger."

He led the way to where his three horses were stalled. Andy immediately made much of Traveller, then turned his attention to the other two.

"What do you think of him?" Jess slipped a bridle onto the black, backed him out of his stall and led him out into the yard.

"Wow!" Andy knew good horse-flesh when he saw it. The black stallion was definitely a superb addition to their stock.

"I figured if we might get some classy foals next year if we let him run with our herd," Jess commented. The horse dealing side of the ranch was largely his responsibility, since Slim much preferred to concentrate on the cattle. "He's had a long journey, so we'll put him out in the south paddock today."

"Did you ride him all the way from St. Louis?"

"No – got him on the train to Denver and then to Cheyenne. Rode the rest of the way." Jess bent down and ran a hand over the horse's legs as he said: "He could do with a rest. He's not as tough as a range horse, but he'll learn." He looked up at his young friend and asked: "Will you keep an eye on him while I'm checking those darned fences?"

"Sure!" Andy's enthusiasm was obvious.

"Up you go, then!" Jess gave him a leg-up onto the bare back and handed him the reins. "He's dying to get at that grass, so you take him down."

"Yeah!" There was no doubting Andy's enthusiasm.

"And Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever wanted to find buried treasure?"

Andy's eyes lit up. "Oh yeah!"

The very slightest glint of amusement touched Jess's own eyes at this verbally limited, but fervent, response. He issued some instructions: "When you've finished putting him out, saddle up Sparks and take a spade with you. Try under the Mother Star tree."

He turned away, entrusting Andy with both tasks and not waiting to see if he could manage the stallion. "I'll see you when I get back this evening."

 **# # # # #**

When the black stallion had gone tearing round the pasture and indulged in a luxurious roll, Andy caught his own horse and took him back to the yard. It did not take him long to saddle up and ride the narrow, twisting path which led up on to the ridge behind the ranch house. You could get there quicker on foot, even in deep snow, but Jess had specifically said to take his horse. It must be big treasure.

Andy smiled to himself as he recalled how he and Jess had scrambled up there one Christmas, into the awesome splendour of the moonlit drifts. It had been then Jess had told him the name of the brightest star, while they were under the tree with the mistletoe they had come to collect. It had been a special place for him ever since and he sometimes came up on his own, just to sit quietly and think.

Now, however, he was intrigued to find out what Jess meant. It made up for having to carry something as awkward as a spade when riding a horse. Reaching the edge of the clearing, he dismounted and left Sparks to stand, while he examined the ground under the tree.

Sure enough, there were faint signs that the ground had been disturbed, although the turf had been very carefully replaced and you would hardly have noticed unless you had particularly been looking for something buried. There didn't seem much likelihood that anyone would, for only Andy and Jess had any reason to distinguish this particular tree from thousands of others.

Spitting on his hands, Andy set to and wielded the spade with energy and determination. Nonetheless, he was careful to pile up the earth so that it could be returned later to the hole and the ground would suffer as little as possible. He, however, soon found he was suffering from blisters; he remembered with a groan that Slim and Jess invariably wore gloves when they were working. He went on doggedly until, after some time, the spade thudded into something hollow that emitted an encouraging 'thunk!'

Andy hauled and worried at the object until he had unearthed a small metal chest – exactly the kind he had always imagined would contain treasure. He sat back on his heels and considered how and when the chest had got there. If Jess wanted him to dig it up, then it must contain something precious to Andy and perhaps to Slim. If Jess knew where it was, he must have buried it or seen someone else do so. It didn't seem likely that anyone else would come to a place which only the two of them knew about and could identify. So Jess had buried the treasure for Andy. If Jess had hidden it, it was really important. And he must have wanted Andy to find it sooner or later.

Despite these guesses and his understandable excitement, Andy was not tempted to open his treasure at once. Jess could have just shown him where it was, but he had chosen not to do so. He clearly intended Andy to find the chest and take it back to the ranch, hence telling him to take his horse. So he didn't want to be there when Andy opened it, but he did want him to take it home.

Home had not been quite the same since their return. Having strangers living in your home is upsetting to say the least. The place felt invaded, disturbed. This was not just because of the kind of men who had taken over, but because familiar things were in the wrong places, pushed into storage or dumped in the outbuildings. It was almost as if someone had deliberately wanted to cause confusion and uncertainty. Some personal items Andy and Jonesy had not even managed to locate in the week they'd been home, but they had been too busy keeping the relay station running for any concentrated search.

Andy was willing to bet that some of the missing things were in the chest. And if so, he wanted to unpack it quietly with Slim and share this treasure that had been rescued for them before Jess ever knew the terrible circumstances in which they had been trapped. He did not understand why Jess would have arranged to be out of the house when this happened but, with his usual sensitivity, decided to wait and see how he would behave in the evening.

He carefully filled in the hole, replaced the turf, loaded the chest onto Sparks and made a very thankful and jubilant return home.

 **# # # # #**

Jess sat utterly still on Traveller and watched Andy until he was out of sight.

He did not move for many long minutes after this. He could not have moved if he had tried. He was not there in the concealing shade of the trees, but, in himself, was struggling again with the necessity of burying the chest under the cover of the darkness of night. He could still feel the icy numbness gripping his heart, the blackness of his own mind and the cold drive of his will. Although he wanted Andy and Slim to have the precious things he had saved for them, he could not bear to see the objects unpacked – the memory was too full of anguish. Even right at the moment they had been unearthed, it seemed scarcely possible that his worst fears had not been true and that everyone he loved had been safely restored. He was back in the depths of the terrifying emptiness and desolation which he had not been able to share with anyone, then or since. He simply could not bring himself to communicate the actions and situations which his overwhelming and harrowing compulsion had driven him into. Nor to express the subtle sense of betrayal implicit in these, which had so wounded his true spirit. Perhaps he never would.

But normality in itself brings healing. Presently he sighed and urged Traveller onto the upward trail. He had work to do. Quiet, routine work, to be completed thoroughly and efficiently. A long day in the saddle, riding the fences. And a weary return to a restored home in the cool of the evening.

It was enough.


	18. Chapter 18

" _The ache for home lives in all of us,_

 _the safe place where we can go as we are_

 _and not be questioned."_

Maya Angelou

 **RETURN**

 **18**

Jess rode into the relay station as the sun began to sink, tired, but with a sense of satisfaction and the hint of an inner peace, at the end of a long day checking the boundary and counting steers. Today had turned out to be a surprising relief – a day on his own, gifting him with the solitude he needed to begin the healing of his spirit. Now he was slightly better able to cope with the warmth and familiarity of the place he knew in his heart he still longed to call home.

He rode in and found Andy, not hanging on the gate, but industriously brushing down the black stallion who was tethered next to it. "If you make him that smart, we'll have to hide him for fear of rustlers!" he commented as he dropped wearily from the saddle and led Traveller into the barn.

Andy's brow wrinkled in a puzzled frown. Jess was obviously not in the mood to discuss the treasure chest and was concentrating on the horse instead. Andy wanted to fling his arms round him in an ecstatic hug of thanks, but somehow it didn't seem the right time or place. So he just followed him into the barn with the black, asking as he did so, "Has he got a name, Jess?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Jess's face. He had been so preoccupied with other things it had never occurred to him to bother about the horse's name. "No. I just think of him as The Black. D'you think he ought to have a name?"

It was Andy's turn to look surprised. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "In some ways, The Black just seems to suit him."

"Wait till he's settled in," Jess suggested, "then you can decide."

"I can? Yippee!" Andy's excited yell startled the horses and brought Jonesy to the back door, demanding that they stop messing about in the barn and get washed up for supper - pronto.

Supper, as it often did, developed into a review of the day. Conversation over the meal was strictly practical, as Slim extracted a detailed account of the boundaries of the ranch and the state of the stock, as inspected by Jess. Jonesy bit his lip and kept back his irritation because, even after all that had happened, Slim did not let up on the younger man so he could relax over the meal. Andy kept quiet, sensing his brother's concern for the work he could not undertake himself, although he did think Slim ought to know he could rely on Jess by now. He wisely kept this opinion to himself. It did not occur to either of them that this litany might be another way of easing back from pain into security and of restoring the shattered framework of daily life, when other things were still too raw to put into words.

So Jonesy was positively glowering when the meal was over. He drove Slim to rest on the couch in front of the fire and sternly told him to stay there and stop fretting. He'd lighted the fire, not so much because it was cold, but because it just felt more homely, and in his heart he hoped it would warm the chilled self-control that he could still sense somewhere at the centre of Jess.

Jess himself did not sit down, but leant against the mantelpiece, just as he had done at the Travers' place. His eyes were on the flames and he drank the coffee absently, as if his mind was elsewhere. _Not still in St Louis_ , Jonesy devoutly hoped. Jonesy'd spent most of his own time there worrying about Andy and fretting at his own helplessness and then looking after Slim. He had not known of Jess's disguise until the very end, but he'd tried, for Andy's sake to find out all he could about the Sherman household and he'd heard plenty of rumours. More than that, his morning conversation with Andy suggested Jess was still carrying a load of anger about the whole affair.

Presently the young Texan stirred and put down his cup. As he had done in the morning, he went over to the door and buckled on his gun-belt. "I'll do the night-check," he said casually over his shoulder. Then a second thought appeared to occur to him. "And yes, I will check thoroughly and yes, I will make sure what should be locked is locked and no, I won't skip the chickens and if Andy hasn't shut up his critters I'll …" His voice faded into the night as the door closed softly behind him.

Andy flicked a quick grin as Jonesy winked at him. Everyone on the relay station knew that not doing the last check himself was enough to send Slim into a night-time's worry, but there was nothing he could do about it under the circumstances. His compulsion about locking up properly was something Jess had teased him about a hundred times before. Slim was lying with his eyes closed and simply muttered, "You'd better!" in just the mock-fierce tones he usually adopted in response to this.

It was a while before Jess came back – presumably he was being extra thorough, knowing Slim's state of mind. When he did appear again, he did not come right in, but stopped in the doorway, incurring Jonesy's wrath for creating a draught.

"Think you can limp as far as the barn?" he asked Slim, a hint of challenge in his voice.

"I thought you thought I ought to be resting?" was the sharp reply.

"There's something you need to look at."

So they all trooped across the yard, Slim leaning heavily on a stick and with Andy's arm for extra support. Jess didn't look round to see if they were following, but strode ahead and lit one of the stable lanterns. As he lifted it to the hook on the beam, it cast as soft glow across the gold of the straw and the shine of leather harness. It picked out the gleam of soft, dark eyes as the horses turned to see who was disturbing their rest. And it glinted on the chestnut coat and white blaze of the one in the nearest stall.

"Alamo!" Slim nearly fell over in his haste to greet his long-lost mount and was then nearly pushed over by the excited butt of Alamo's head in greeting. It wasn't until he had inspected every inch of the horse and made much of him in no uncertain manner, that he realised Jess and Jonesy had slipped away in the dark and even Andy was just hovering patiently by the door, knowing Slim would need help walking back to the ranch-house.

They made it back in record time.

"Where did you find him?" Slim asked delightedly, almost before he had got over the threshold.

"New Mexico." Jess told him. "That's why it's taken so long to get him back here. The Ranulfhjar brought him up in relays – arrived just after supper."

Slim was grinning from ear to ear. "I thought I'd lost him for good!"

"You nearly did. Cost a king's ransom to prize him away from the trail-boss who bought him."

"I owe you." The look on Slim's face said far more than just his thankfulness over the return of his horse. His eyes flicked briefly to the mantelpiece and the restored pictures there, to his desk and the small items now in their proper place, to the shelf where favourite books were ready to be taken down, to Andy with his precious knife - the one their Pa had given him - in his hand. His voice was ragged as he repeated, "I owe you more –"

"No you don't." Jess cut him short, his tone completely matter-of-fact.

They locked eyes for a moment and in that moment was exchanged the unspoken knowledge of what each of them, without reservation, would do for the other. Then Jess went on, "Besides, it was worth it because of what he did."

"What?"

"He gave me the first clue that that accident of yours was impossible." Slim raised his eyebrows at this and Jess explained: "Alamo's a great horse, can't beat him on most ground, but you know, and so do I, how much he hates really steep slopes. There's no way he'd have gone down the Devil's Leap. It was a lunatic risk on any horse and it wasn't even a starter on one with the good sense of Alamo. Besides, I never marked you down for needing to show off to anyone, let alone a bunch of youngsters you'd only just met." _Or a woman_ was unspoken but understood.

At this point, Jonesy managed to shoo Slim back onto the couch and more or less pushed Jess into the rocking chair. When he was convinced they would both stay put, he went out to refill the coffee jug and returned with it in one hand and the whiskey bottle in the other. He silently plied the younger men with both kinds of drink, reckoning that there were going to be some painful revelations, as well as celebration, before the conversation was over. Andy just curled up quietly on the rug in front of the fire, making himself as inconspicuous as he could.

Slim took a long pull of the whiskey. "They tried to get me to do it," he admitted, "but you're right. Even you, in your most reckless mood, wouldn't have done it unless you had to."

"Darned true," Jess agreed, sounding fractionally more relaxed and like himself. "So what happened when you refused?"

"They jumped me anyway," A brief, painful shadow crossed Slim's face as he continued: "Next thing I knew, I was trussed up in that attic, hearing a lot of sweet-talking from a certain very persuasive lady."

Jess scowled and said, "And when her methods didn't work?"

"I got a lot less sweet persuasion from Bradley's thugs!"

Jess shivered involuntarily, recalling his own experience of exactly what those persuaders could do. _But why hadn't they used the obvious weapon in their power?_ He looked down at Andy, then at Slim and lifted one eyebrow in query. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that Slim would never risk Andy for the sake of the ranch, any more than he would himself.

Slim shook his head slightly and said softly, "That was their card for making everything look above board. No point in damaging it – I overheard them saying so! A nice, normal situation was what suited them - just like the marriage -" He stopped abruptly, visibly gathering himself to tell the rest of the tale He went on bitterly, "When Bradley let up for a bit, she'd come back and ask again. And again. And again!" He paused a little more, dropping his gaze, his eyes focusing on the floor, because his next admission was a hard one: "You told me, a while ago, Jess, that some women are poison and I guess I've tasted the truth of that now!"

The words hung in the air. Everything became very still. When he raised his eyes again, Slim saw that Jess had gone so white under his tan he looked as if he was going to throw up. Slim was utterly taken aback and unsure what had caused this, but he was in no doubt that something had inflicted terrible pain on his friend. He just had no idea what it was or how to help and wisely decided to wait and see what would happen. When Jess needed that help, whatever it might be, he would be there and ready.

After a minute, Jess gave a swiftly controlled shudder. He felt in his shirt pocket and pulled out a battered piece of paper. He unfolded it slowly and smoothed it out so Slim could see the handwriting was his own. A long look passed between them, then Slim gave the slightest of nods and Jess reached out and dropped the letter into the fire. It would be dramatic to say that the last words illuminated by the flames were Catherine's name, but, in fact, the paper burnt with the swiftness of something which had no relevance in the real world.

Jess leaned back in his chair, drew a deep breath and asked: "But persuasion about what? What was the point?"

"They wanted control of this ranch, as part of their smuggling system. They would have killed me there and then, so they could take over in Andy's name and get it that way." He saw Jess's jaw clench at the mere memory and hurried on with his story: "But I told them about the will. I'd made a will myself, you see, not long ago. It was properly witnessed and completely legal, so they had to find and destroy it or lose everything they planned."

"But surely the lawyer would just have given it to them, when -?" Jess still couldn't bring himself to say " _when you were dead_."

"It wasn't at the lawyers. I hadn't returned it and they didn't know where it was."

"And why would the will stop them?"

"Because I've made special arrangements about my share of the ranch." Slim smiled with profound affection as he looked at the sometime drifter, now an integral part of the Sherman family. He said gently, "It's yours. And I've appointed you as Andy's guardian until he is twenty one. You have full control over everything. So, it wasn't just a question of getting rid of me, they had to find and destroy the will and dispose of you too – and, as you once said, you don't kill easy."

There was another silence. Jess had shut his eyes, as if he was immersed in something too personal to share. When he opened them again, he looked long and hard at Slim, rather like someone who was afraid they were dreaming. But he just asked: "So where was the will, if they couldn't find it?"

"In the obvious place." Slim rose painfully from the couch, ignoring the fact that Jess had sprung out of the rocking-chair in an effort to stop him. He limped over to the fireplace and removed the false stone. He slid his fingers into the cavity and drew out the envelope addressed to him which Jess had left lying there the night he was forced to leave.

"But, of course, only family know about the hiding place." Slim handed the envelope to Jess with another encouraging smile. "It's all here. So all I had to do was to refuse to tell them where it was and they had to keep me alive!"

Jess took the envelope in silence, walked over to the table and laid it down as if he was handling something made of the most fragile glass. He did not make any attempt to open it, just leaned there, staring at it. The muscles across his shoulders and down his forearms were unbelievably tense. When Slim moved quietly to join him, he turned in one of his lightning moves and said with unexpected savagery: "So it was all down to me?"

"What was?"

"All this." Jess reached out and laid his hand over the bruises and cuts still marking Slim's face. "All because they couldn't find me and kill me. So they had to take the slow way of killing you. It's my fault!"

"Your fault? Why, you saved my life twice over, you idiot!" Slim didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to fling his arms round his friend, his partner, in a reassuring bear-hug, but he did not, not yet. He sensed that what had happened was too painful and the outcome still too fragile for anything of the kind. He just took Jess by the shoulders and, as he had so often done, shook him - but gently this time. "Do you understand? Twice! First by working out what was going on and finding me. Second because, if I didn't trusted you utterly, didn't know that there was nothing on this earth you wouldn't do to take care of Andy – and of me - know that you would die to save us, I'd never have made my will and I'd be dead, right now."

He heard Jess's breath draw in harshly almost like a sob, as he dropped his eyes and half turned his face away, a sure sign, Slim knew of old, that he was struggling to control some powerful emotion. He did not take his own gaze away from the averted face, across which the cruelty, pain and grief of the last weeks were carved so harshly. Jess looked tougher and grimmer than he had ever done, even when he had first arrived at the relay station. Slim could only begin to guess at what the events in St. Louis had cost him. It was going to take time and care and patience to heal such unseen injuries and Slim would give all he had to do so.

It was Andy who remembered the promise at the heart of the matter. He could see that Jess was too strung up for any real physical contact, but he got up off the hearthrug where he had been lying and put his hand on his friend's – no, more than that, his guardian's – arm and said firmly: "You've finished what you set out to do, Jess."

There was another indrawn breath before Jess said softly, almost to himself, "Yeah – it's finished." He paused and seemed to be thinking; then, for the first time, they heard the gravelly Texan drawl really return to his voice: "Guess what I'm needin' right now is a cigarette!"

It was just an excuse and they all knew it, but it got him out of the house, into the cool, open yard and the space he needed. He stood right in the middle of the yard, his head tilted to look at the thick and blazing stars. He stood quite still, thinking. Jess was never one to harbour vain regrets about the past or to agonise about alternative actions he could have taken. He faced his own responsibilities squarely and, in the light of them, he needed to sort out the facts of what had happened from the turmoil of released emotions.

 _I trust you utterly._ _If only he had opened that letter, none of this need have happened. He would have had the legal right to challenge what was being done to Andy. And how far would that have got him? Even if he had not taken off in a fit of angry impetuosity to rescue Andy from St. Louis – even if he had stayed calm and let the lawyers handle it - his own days would have been numbered, he was quite sure of it. The ramifications of the plot were so great he would have been overwhelmingly out-gunned. Not that long odds had ever made a difference to him, but he was highly realistic in estimating them and knew that his chances of bringing off the kind of ending they had actually achieved would have been extremely limited. As it was, it was Bradley's thugs who had driven him into hiding and so ironically prevented them from finding him when the order came to kill. It would have been totally different, if he had opened the letter. But he had not known what was in it and it was sealed and addressed to Slim. There was no way he would have opened it without authorisation of some kind. So it had remained hidden and unopened, and yet what was in it had ultimately saved Slim. And, equally important, what was in it was what really mattered: I trust you utterly._

He turned and made his way slowly over to the barn and into the soft, quiet, sweet-scented darkness. He walked into Traveller's stall and the bay turned to greet him with a soft snort and a nudge. Jess flung an arm round the strong neck and leaned his head into the hollow of the horse's shoulder. And then, at last, he allowed himself to weep.

* * *

Acknowledgement: _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._

Reviews of revised version very welcome. Thank you to everyone who has already provided encouraging and very helpful feedback on this story.

And yes, I did originally intend to kill Slim off and write a nice, romantic piece about Jess and Catherine. But as the story developed, I found that I simply could not do that to Jess or to myself as a writer or to Slim (who, as a character, I have come to love and respect pretty well as much as Jess) or, most important, to all you readers.

This part of the story is, as Jess says, "finished". Or is it? If there is a follow-on, it will probably take a year complete, so please don't hold your breath!


End file.
